"The  preserver  of  the  American  bison." 

Jones  at  the  left  of  the  picture. 


CONTENTS 


I    THE  ARIZONA  DESERT 3 

II  THE  RANGE      ...                  ...     29 

III  THE  LAST  HERD 54 

IV  THE  TRAIL 75 

V    OAK  SPRING 99 

VI    THE  WHITE  MUSTANG 109 

VII  SNAKE  GULCH  .......  123 

VIII     NAZA!  NAZA!  NAZA! 141 

IX  THE  LAND  OF  THE  MusK-Ox      .         .         .         .152 

X  SUCCESS  AND  FAILURE       .         .         .         .         .168 

XI      ON    TO    THE    SlWASH 19! 

XII     OLD  TOM 213 

XIII  SINGING  CLIFFS 234 

XIV  ALL  HEROES  BUT  ONE 253 

XV    JONES  ON  COUGARS 273 

XVI     KITTY .         .284 

XVII     CONCLUSION 311 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  ARIZONA  DESERT 

ONE  afternoon,  far  out  on  the  sun-baked  waste 
of  sage,  we  made  camp  near  a  clump  of 
withered  pinon  trees.  The  cold  desert  wind 
came  down  upon  us  with  the  sudden  darkness.  Even 
the  Mormons,  who  were  finding  the  trail  for  us  across 
the  drifting  sands,  forgot  to  sing  and  pray  at  sun 
down.  We  huddled  round  the  campfire,  a  tired  and 
silent  little  group.  When  out  of  the  lonely,  melan 
choly  night  some  wandering  Navajos  stole  like 
shadows  to  our  fire,  we  hailed  their  advent  with 
delight.  They  were  good-natured  Indians,  willing 
to  barter  a  blanket  or  bracelet;  and  one  of  them,  a 
tall,  gaunt  fellow,  with  the  bearing  of  a  chief,  could 
speak  a  little  English. 

"  How,"  said  he,  in  a  deep  chest  voice. 

"Hello,  Noddlecoddy,"  greeted  Jim  Emmett,  the 
Mormon  guide. 

"  Ugh!  "  answered  the  Indian. 

"  Big  paleface — Buffalo  Jones — big  chief — buffalo 
man,"  introduced  Emmett,  indicating  Jones. 

3 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  How."  The  Navajo  spoke  with  dignity,  and 
extended  a  friendly  hand. 

"  Jones  big  white  chief — rope  buffalo — tie  up 
tight,"  continued  Emmett,  making  motions  with  his 
arm,  as  if  he  were  whirling  a  lasso. 

"  No  big — heap  small  buffalo,"  said  the  Indian, 
holding  his  hand  level  with  his  knee,  and  smiling 
broadly. 

Jones,  erect,  rugged,  brawny,  stood  in  the  full 
light  of  the  campfire.  He  had  a  dark,  bronzed, 
inscrutable  face;  a  stern  mouth  and  square  jaw,  keen 
eyes,  half-closed  from  years  of  searching  the  wide 
plains,  and  deep  furrows  wrinkling  his  cheeks.  A 
strange  stillness  enfolded  his  features — the  tran- 
quility  earned  from  a  long  life  of  adventure. 

He  held  up  both  muscular  hands  to  the  Navajo, 
and  spread  out  his  fingers. 

"  Rope  buffalo — heap  big  buffalo — heap  many — 


one  sun." 


The  Indian  straightened  up,  but  kept  his  friendly 
smile. 

"  Me  big  chief,"  went  on  Jones,  "  me  go  far 
north — Land  of  Little  Sticks — Naza !  Naza  ! — rope 
musk-ox;  rope  White  Manitou  of  Great  Slaves — 
Naza!  Naza!" 

"  Naza !  "  replied  the  Navaju,  pointing  to  the 
North  Star;  "  no — no." 

4 


The  Arizona  Desert 


"  Yes — me  big  paleface — me  come  long  way 
toward  setting  sun — go  cross  Big  Water — go  Buck 
skin — Siwash — chase  cougar." 

The  cougar,  or  mountain  lion,  is  a  Navajo  god, 
and  the  Navajos  hold  him  in  as  much  fear  and 
reverence  as  do  the  Great  Slave  Indians  the  musk-ox. 

"  No  kill  cougar,"  continued  Jones,  as  the  Indian's 
bold  features  hardened.  "  Run  cougar  horseback — 
run  long  way — dogs  chase  cougar  long  time — chase 
cougar  up  tree!  Me  big  chief — me  climb  tree — 
climb  high  up — lasso  cougar — rope  cougar — tie 
cougar  all  tight." 

The  Navajo's  solemn  face  relaxed. 

"  White  man  heap  fun.    No." 

'  Yes,"  cried  Jones,  extending  his  great  arms. 
"  Me  strong;  me  rope  cougar — me  tie  cougar;  ride 
off  wigwam,  keep  cougar  alive." 

"  No,"  replied  the  savage  vehemently. 

'  Yes,"  protested  Jones,  nodding  earnestly. 

"  No,"  answered  the  Navajo,  louder,  raising  his 
dark  head. 

"  Yes!  "  shouted  Jones. 

"  BIG  LIE!  "  the  Indian  thundered. 

Jones  joined  good-naturedly  in  the  laugh  at  his 
expense.  The  Indian  had  crudely  voiced  a  skepticism 
I  had  heard  more  delicately  hinted  in  New  York, 
and  singularly  enough,  which  had  strengthened  on 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


our  way  West,  as  we  met  ranchers,  prospectors  and 
cowboys.  But  those  few  men  I  had  fortunately  met, 
who  really  knew  Jones,  more  than  overbalanced  the 
doubt  and  ridicule  cast  upon  him.  I  recalled  a 
scarred  old  veteran  of  the  plains,  who  had  talked  to 
me  in  true  Western  bluntness: 

"  Say,  young  feller,  I  heerd  yer  couldn't  git  acrost 
the  canon  fer  the  deep  snow  on  the  north  rim.  Wai, 
ye're  lucky.  Now,  yer  hit  the  trail  fer  New  York, 
an'  keep  goin' !  Don't  ever  tackle  the  desert,  'spe 
cially  with  them  Mormons.  They've  got  water  on 
the  brain,  wusser  'n  religion.  It's  two  hundred  an' 
fifty  miles  from  Flagstaff  to  Jones'  range,  an'  only 
two  drinks  on  the  trail.  I  know  this  hyar  Buffalo 
Jones.  I  knowed  him  way  back  in  the  seventies,  when 
he  was  doin'  them  ropin'  stunts  thet  made  him  famous 
as  the  preserver  of  the  American  bison.  I  know 
about  that  crazy  trip  of  his'n  to  the  Barren  Lands, 
after  musk-ox.  An'  I  reckon  I  kin  guess  what  he'll 
do  over  there  in  the  Siwash.  He'll  rope  cougars — 
sure  he  will — an*  watch  'em  jump.  Jones  would  rope 
the  devil,  an'  tie  him  down  if  the  lasso  didn't  burn. 
Oh!  he's  hell  on  ropin'  things.  An'  he's  wusser  'n 
hell  on  men,  an'  bosses,  an'  dogs." 

All  that  my  well-meaning  friend  suggested  made 
me,  of  course,  only  the  more  eager  to  go  wkh  Jones. 
Where  I  had  once  been  interested  in  the  old  buffalo 


The  Arizona  Desert 


hunter,  I  was  now  fascinated.  And  now  I  was  with 
him  in  the  desert  and  seeing  him  as  he  was,  a  simple, 
quiet  man,  who  fitted  the  mountains  and  the  silences, 
and  the  long  reaches  of  distance. 

"  It  does  seem  hard  to  believe — all  this  about 
Jones,"  remarked  Judd,  one  of  Emmett's  men. 
"  How  could  a  man  have  the  strength  and  the  nerve? 
And  isn't  it  cruel  to  keep  wild  animals  in  captivity? 
Isn't  it  against  God's  word?  " 

Quick  as  speech  could  flow,  Jones  quoted :  "  And 
God  said,  '  Let  us  make  man  in  our  image,  and  give 
him  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  the  fowls  of 
the  air,  over  all  the  cattle,  and  over  every  creeping 
thing  that  creepeth  upon  the  earth  ' !  " 

"Dominion — over  all  the  beasts  of  the  field!" 
repeated  Jones,  his  big  voice  rolling  out.  He 
clenched  his  huge  fists,  and  spread  wide  his  long 
arms.  "Dominion!  That  was  God's  word !"  The 
power  and  intensity  of  him  could  be  felt.  Then  he 
relaxed,  dropped  his  arms,  and  once  more  grew  calm. 
But  he  had  shown  a  glimpse  of  the  great,  strange 
and  absorbing  passion  of  his  life.  Once  he  had 
told  me  how,  when  a  mere  child,  he  had  hazarded 
limb  and  neck  to  capture  a  fox  squirrel,  how  he  had 
held  on  to  the  vicious  little  animal,  though  it  bit  his 
hand  through;  how  he  had  never  learned  to  play 
the  games  of  boyhood;  that  when  the  youths  of  the 

7 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


little  Illinois  village  were  at  play,  he  roamed  the 
prairies,  or  the  rolling,  wooded  hills,  or  watched  a 
gopher  hole.  That  boy  was  father  of  the  man:  for 
sixty  years  an  enduring  passion  for  dominion  over 
wild  animals  had  possessed  him,  and  made  his  life 
an  endless  pursuit. 

Our  guests,  the  Navajos,  departed  early,  and  van 
ished  silently  in  the  gloom  of  the  desert.  We  set 
tled  down  again  into  a  quiet  that  was  broken  only 
by  the  low  chant-like  song  of  a  praying  Mormon. 
Suddenly  the  hounds  bristled,  and  old  Moze,  a  surly 
and  aggressive  dog,  rose  and  barked  at  some  real 
or  imaginary  desert  prowler.  A  sharp  command 
from  Jones  made  Moze  crouch  down,  and  the  other 
hounds  cowered  close  together. 

"  Better  tie  up  the  dogs,"  suggested  Jones.  "  Like 
as  not  coyotes  run  down  here  from  the  hills." 

The  hounds  were  my  especial  delight.  But  Jones 
regarded  them  with  considerable  contempt.  When 
all  was  said,  this  was  no  small  wonder,  for  that 
quintet  of  long-eared  canines  would  have  tried  the 
patience  of  a  saint.  Old  Moze  was  a  Missouri  hound 
that  Jones  had  procured  in  that  State  of  uncertain 
qualities;  and  the  dog  had  grown  old  over  coon- 
trails.  He  was  black  and  white,  grizzled  and  battle- 
scarred;  and  if  ever  a  dog  had  an  evil  eye,  Moze 
was  that  dog.  He  had  a  way  of  wagging  his  tail — 


The  Arizona  Desert 


an  indeterminate,  equivocal  sort  of  wag,  as  if  he  real 
ized  his  ugliness  and  knew  he  stood  little  chance  of 
making  friends,  but  was  still  hopeful  and  willing. 
As  for  me,  the  first  time  he  manifested  this  evidence 
of  a  good  heart  under  a  rough  coat,  he  won  me 
forever. 

To  tell  of  Moze's  derelictions  up  to  that  time 
would  take  more  space  than  would  a  history  of  the 
whole  trip;  but  the  enumeration  of  several  incidents 
will  at  once  stamp  him  as  a  dog  of  character,  and  will 
establish  the  fact  that  even  if  his  progenitors  had 
never  taken  any  blue  ribbons,  they  had  at  least 
bequeathed  him  fighting  blood.  At  Flagstaff  we 
chained  him  in  the  yard  of  a  livery  stable.  Next 
morning  we  found  him  hanging  by  his  chain  on  the 
other  side  of  an  eight-foot  fence.  We  took  him 
down,  expecting  to  have  the  sorrowful  duty  of  bury 
ing  him;  but  Moze  shook  himself,  wagged  his  tail, 
and  then  pitched  into  the  livery  stable  dog.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  fighting  was  his  forte.  He  whipped 
all  of  the  dogs  in  Flagstaff;  and  when  our  blood 
hounds  came  on  from  California,  he  put  three  of  them 
hors  de  combat  at  once,  and  subdued  the  pup  with  a 
savage  growl.  His  crowning  feat,  however,  made 
even  the  stoical  Jones  open  his  mouth  in  amaze.  We 
had  taken  Moze  to  the  El  Tovar  at  the  Grand 
Canon,  and  finding  it  impossible  to  get  over  to  the 

9 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


north  rim,  we  left  him  with  one  of  Jones's  men, 
called  Rust,  who  was  working  on  the  canon  trail. 
Rust's  instructions  were  to  bring  Moze  to  Flagstaff 
in  two  weeks.  He  brought  the  dog  a  little  ahead  of 
time,  and  roared  his  appreciation  of  the  relief  it  was 
to  get  the  responsibility  off  his  hands.  And  he  related 
many  strange  things,  most  striking  of  which  was  how 
Moze  had  broken  his  chain  and  plunged  into  the 
raging  Colorado  River,  and  tried  to  swim  it  just 
above  the  terrible  Sockdolager  Rapids.  Rust  and 
his  fellow-workmen  watched  the  dog  disappear  in  the 
yellow,  wrestling,  turbulent  whirl  of  waters,  and  had 
heard  his  knell  in  the  booming  roar  of  the  falls. 
Nothing  but  a  fish  could  live  in  that  current;  nothing 
but  a  bird  could  scale  those  perpendicular  marble 
walls.  That  night,  however,  when  the  men  crossed 
on  the  tramway,  Moze  met  them  with  a  wag  of  his 
tail.  He  had  crossed  the  river,  and  he  had  come 
back! 

To  the  four  reddish-brown,  big-framed  blood 
hounds  I  had  given  the  names  of  Don,  Tige,  Jude 
and  Ranger;  and  by  dint  of  persuasion,  had  succeeded 
in  establishing  some  kind  of  family  relation  between 
them  and  Moze.  This  night  I  tied  up  the  blood 
hounds,  after  bathing  and  salving  their  sore  feet; 
and  I  left  Moze  free,  for  he  grew  fretful  and  surly 
under  restraint 

10 


The  Arizona  Desert 


The  Mormons,  prone,  dark,  blanketed  figures,  lay 
on  the  sand.  Jones  was  crawling  into  his  bed.  I 
walked  a  little  way  from  the  dying  fire,  and  faced 
the  north,  where  the  desert  stretched,  mysterious  and 
illimitable.  How  solemn  and  still  it  was !  I  drew  in 
a  great  breath  of  the  cold  air,  and  thrilled  with  a 
nameless  sensation.  Something  was  there,  away  to 
the  northward;  it  called  to  me  from  out  of  the  dark 
and  gloom ;  I  was  going  to  meet  it. 

I  lay  down  to  sleep  with  the  great  blue  expanse 
open  to  my  eyes.  The  stars  were  very  large,  and 
wonderfully  bright,  yet  they  seemed  so  much  farther 
off  than  I  had  ever  seen  them.  The  wind  softly 
sifted  the  sand.  I  hearkened  to  the  tinkle  of  the 
cowbells  on  the  hobbled  horses.  The  last  thing  I 
remembered  was  old  Moze  creeping  close  to  my  side, 
seeking  the  warmth  of  my  body. 

When  I  awakened,  a  long,  pale  line  showed  out  of 
the  dun-colored  clouds  in  the  east.  It  slowly  length 
ened,  and  tinged  to  red.  Then  the  morning  broke, 
and  the  slopes  of  snow  on  the  San  Francisco  peaks 
behind  us  glowed  a  delicate  pink.  The  Mormons 
were  up  and  doing  with  the  dawn.  They  were  stal 
wart  men,  rather  silent,  and  all  workers.  It  was 
interesting  to  see  them  pack  for  the  day's  journey. 
They  traveled  with  wagons  and  mules,  in  the  most 
primitive  way,  which  Jones  assured  me  was  exactly 

11 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


as  their  fathers  had  crossed  the  plains  fifty  years 
before,  on  the  trail  to  Utah. 

All  morning  we  made  good  time,  and  as  we 
descended  into  the  desert,  the  air  became  warmer,  the 
scrubby  cedar  growth  began  to  fail,  and  the  bunches 
of  sage  were  few  and  far  between.  I  turned  often 
to  gaze  back  at  the  San  Francisco  peaks.  The  snow 
capped  tips  glistened  and  grew  higher,  and  stood 
out  in  startling  relief.  Some  one  said  they  could  be 
seen  two  hundred  miles  across  the  desert,  and  were 
a  landmark  and  a  fascination  to  all  travelers  thither 
ward. 

I  never  raised  my  eyes  to  the  north  that  I  did  not 
draw  my  breath  quickly  and  grow  chill  with  awe  and 
bewilderment  with  the  marvel  of  the  desert.  The 
scaly  red  ground  descended  gradually;  bare  red 
knolls,  like  waves,  rolled  away  northward;  black 
buttes  reared  their  flat  heads;  long  ranges  of  sand 
flowed  between  them  like  streams,  and  all  sloped 
away  to  merge  into  gray,  shadowy  obscurity,  into 
wild  and  desolate,  dreamy  and  misty  nothingness. 

"  Do  you  see  those  white  sand  dunes  there,  more 
to  the  left?  "  asked  Emmett.  "  The  Little  Colorado 
runs  in  there.  How  far  does  it  look  to  you?  " 

"  Thirty  miles,  perhaps,"  I  replied,  adding  ten 
miles  to  my  estimate. 

"  It's   seventy-five.     We'll   get   there   day   after 

12 


The  Arizona  Desert 


to-morrow.     If  the  snow  in  the  mountains  has  begun 
to  melt,  we'll  have  a  time  getting  across." 

That  afternoon,  a  hot  wind  blew  in  my  face,  carry 
ing  fine  sand  that  cut  and  blinded.  It  filled  my 
throat,  sending  me  to  the  water  cask  till  I  was 
ashamed.  When  I  fell  into  my  bed  at  night,  I  never 
turned.  The  next  day  was  hotter;  the  wind  blew 
harder;  the  sand  stung  sharper. 

About  noon  the  following  day,  the  horses  whin 
nied,  and  the  mules  roused  out  of  their  tardy  gait. 
"  They  smell  water,"  said  Emmett.  And  despite 
the  heat,  and  the  sand  in  my  nostrils,  I  smelled  it, 
too.  The  dogs,  poor  foot-sore  fellows,  trotted  on 
ahead  down  the  trail.  A  few  more  miles  of  hot  sand 
and  gravel  and  red  stone  brought  us  around  a  low 
mesa  to  the  Little  Colorado. 

It  was  a  wide  stream  of  swiftly  running,  reddish- 
muddy  water.  In  the  channel,  cut  by  floods,  little 
streams  trickled  and  meandered  in  all  directions.  The 
main  part  of  the  river  ran  in  close  to  the  bank  we 
were  on.  The  dogs  lolled  in  the  water;  the  horses 
and  mules  tried  to  run  in,  but  were  restrained;  the 
men  drank,  and  bathed  their  faces.  According  to  my 
Flagstaff  adviser,  this  was  one  of  the  two  drinks  I 
would  g^t  on  the  desert,  so  I  availed  myself  heartily 
of  the  opportunity.  The  water  was  full  of  sand,  but 
cold  and  gratefully  thirst-quenching. 

13 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


The  Little  Colorado  seemed  no  more  to  me  than 
a  shallow  creek;  I  heard  nothing  sullen  or  menacing 
in  its  musical  flow. 

"Doesn't  look  bad,  eh?"  queried  Emmett,  who 
read  my  thought.  "  You'd  be  surprised  to  learn  how 
many  men  and  Indians,  horses,  sheep  and  wagons 
are  buried  under  that  quicksand." 

The  secret  was  out,  and  I  wondered  no  more.  At 
once  the  stream  and  wet  bars  of  sand  took  on  a 
different 'color.  I  removed  my  boots,  and  waded 
out  to  a  little  bar.  The  sand  seemed  quite  firm,  but 
water  oozed  out  around  my  feet;  and  when  I  stepped, 
the  whole  bar  shook  like  jelly.  I  pushed  my  foot 
through  the  crust,  and  the  cold,  wet  sand  took  hold, 
and  tried  to  suck  me  down. 

"  How  can  you  ford  this  stream  with  horses?  "  I 
asked  Emmett. 

"  We  must  take  our  chances,"  replied  he.  "  We'll 
hitch  two  teams  to  one  wagon,  and  run  the  horses. 
I've  forded  here  at  worse  stages  than  this.  Once 
a  team  got  stuck,  and  I  had  to  leave  it;  another  time 
the  water  was  high,  and  washed  me  downstream." 

Emmett  sent  his  son  into  the  stream  on  a  mule. 
The  rider  lashed  his  mount,  and  plunging,  splashing, 
crossed  at  a  pace  near  a  gallop.  He  returned  in  the 
same  manner,  and  reported  one  bad  place  near  the 
other  side. 

14 


The  Arizona  Desert 


Jones  and  I  got  on  the  first  wagon  and  tried  to 
coax  up  the  dogs,  but  they  would  not  come.  Emmett 
had  to  lash  the  four  horses  to  start  them;  and  other 
Mormons  riding  alongside,  yelled  at  them,  and  used 
their  whips.  The  wagon  bowled  into  the  water  with 
a  tremendous  splash.  We  were  wet  through  before 
we  had  gone  twenty  feet.  The  plunging  horses  were 
lost  in  yellow  spray;  the  stream  rushed  through  the 
wheels;  the  Mormons  yelled.  I  wanted  to  see,  but 
was  lost  in  a  veil  of  yellow  mist.  Jones  yelled  in 
my  ear,  but  I  could  not  hear  what  he  said.  Once 
the  wagon  wheels  struck  a  stone  or  log,  almost  lurch 
ing  us  overboard.  A  muddy  splash  blinded  me.  I 
cried  out  in  my  excitement,  and  punched  Jones  in  the 
back.  Next  moment,  the  keen  exhilaration  of  the 
ride  gave  way  to  horror.  We  seemed  to  drag,  and 
almost  stop.  Some  one  roared:  "  Horse  down!" 
One  instant  of  painful  suspense,  in  which  imagination 
pictured  another  tragedy  added  to  the  record  of  this 
deceitful  river — a  moment  filled  with  intense  feeling, 
and  sensation  of  splash,  and  yell,  and  fury  of  action ; 
then  the  three  able  horses  dragged  their  comrade 
out  of  the  quicksand.  He  regained  his  feet,  and 
plunged  on.  Spurred  by  fear,  the  horses  increased 
their  efforts,  and  amid  clouds  of  spray,  galloped  the 
remaining  distance  to  the  other  side. 

Jones  looked  disgusted.     Like  all  plainsmen,  he 

15 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


hated  water.  Emmett  and  his  men  calmly  unhitched. 
No  trace  of  alarm,  or  even  of  excitement  showed  in 
their  bronzed  faces. 

"  We  made  that  fine  and  easy,"  remarked  Emmett. 

So  I  sat  down  and  wondered  what  Jones  and 
Emmett,  and  these  men  would  consider  really  hazard 
ous.  I  began  to  have  a  feeling  that  I  would  find 
out;  that  experience  for  me  was  but  in  its  infancy; 
that  far  across  the  desert  the  something  which  had 
called  me  would  show  hard,  keen,  perilous  life.  And 
I  began  to  think  of  reserve  powers  of  fortitude  and 
endurance. 

The  other  wagons  were  brought  across  without 
mishap;  but  the  dogs  did  not  come  with  them. 
Jones  called  and  called.  The  dogs  howled  and 
howled.  Finally  I  waded  out  over  the  wet  bars 
and  little  streams  to  a  point  several  hundred  yards 
nearer  the  dogs.  Moze  was  lying  down,  but  the 
others  were  whining  and  howling  in  a  state  of  great 
perturbation.  I  called  and  called.  They  answered, 
and  even  ran  into  the  water,  but  did  not  start  across. 

"  Hyah,  Moze!  hyah,  you  Indian!  "  I  yelled,  los 
ing  my  patience.  "  You've  already  swum  the  Big 
Colorado,  and  this  is  only  a  brook.  Come  on !  " 

This  appeal  evidently  touched  Moze,  for  he 
barked,  and  plunged  in.  He  made  the  water  fly, 
and  when  carried  off  his  feet,  breasted  the  current 

16 


The  Arizona  Desert 


with  energy  and  power.  He  made  shore  almost 
even  with  me,  and  wagged  his  tail.  Not  to  be  out 
done,  Jude,  Tige  and  Don  followed  suit,  and  first 
one  and  then  another  was  swept  off  his  feet  and 
carried  downstream.  They  landed  below  me.  This 
left  Ranger,  the  pup,  alone  on  the  other  shore.  Of 
all  the  pitiful  yelps  ever  uttered  by  a  frightened  and 
lonely  puppy,  his  were  the  most  forlorn  I  had  ever 
heard.  Time  after  time  he  plunged  in,  and  with 
many  bitter  howls  of  distress,  went  back.  I  kept 
calling,  and  at  last,  hoping  to  make  him  come  by  a 
show  of  indifference,  I  started  away.  This  broke 
his  heart.  Putting  up  his  head,  he  let  out  a  long, 
melancholy  wail,  which  for  aught  I  knew  might  have 
been  a  prayer,  and  then  consigned  himself  to  the 
yellow  current.  Ranger  swam  like  a  boy  learning. 
He  seemed  to  be  afraid  to  get  wet.  His  forefeet 
were  continually  pawing  the  air  in  front  of  his  nose. 
When  he  struck  the  swift  place,  he  went  downstream 
like  a  flash,  but  still  kept  swimming  valiantly.  I 
tried  to  follow  along  the  sand-bar,  but  found  it 
impossible.  I  encouraged  him  by  yelling.  He 
drifted  far  below,  stranded  on  an  island,  crossed  it, 
and  plunged  in  again,  to  make  shore  almost  out  of 
my  sight.  And  when  at  last  I  got  to  dry  sand,  there 
was  Ranger,  wet  and  disheveled,  but  consciously 
proud  and  happy. 

17 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


After  lunch  we  entered  upon  the  seventy-mile 
stretch  from  the  Little  to  the  Big  Colorado. 

Imagination  had  pictured  the  desert  for  me  as  a 
vast,  sandy  plain,  flat  and  monotonous.  Reality 
showed  me  desolate  mountains  gleaming  bare  in  the 
sun,  long  lines  of  red  bluffs,  white  sand  dunes,  and 
hills  of  blue  clay,  areas  of  level  ground — in  all,  a 
many-hued,  boundless  world  in  itself,  wonderful  and 
beautiful,  fading  all  around  into  the  purple  haze  of 
deceiving  distance. 

Thin,  clear,  sweet,  dry,  the  desert  air  carried  a 
languor,  a  dreaminess,  tidings  of  far-off  things,  and 
an  enthralling  promise.  The  fragrance  of  flowers, 
the  beauty  and  grace  of  women,  the  sweetness  of 
music,  the  mystery  of  life — all  seemed  to  float  on  that 
promise.  It  was  the  air  breathed  by  the  lotus-eaters, 
when  they  dreamed,  and  wandered  no  more. 

Beyond  the  Little  Colorado,  we  began  to  climb 
again.  The  sand  was  thick;  the  horses  labored;  the 
drivers  shielded  their  faces.  The  dogs  began  to  limp 
and  lag.  Ranger  had  to  be  taken  into  a  wagon ;  and 
then,  one  by  one,  all  of  the  other  dogs  except  Moze. 
He  refused  to  ride,  and  trotted  along  with  his  head 
down. 

Far  to  the  front  the  pink  cliffs,  the  ragged  mesas, 
the  dark,  volcanic  spurs  of  the  Big  Colorado  stood 
up  and  beckoned  us  onward.  But  they  were  a  far 

18 


The  Arizona  Desert 


hundred  miles  across  the  shifting  sands,  and  baked 
clay,  and  ragged  rocks.  Always  in  the  rear  rose  the 
San  Francisco  peaks,  cold  and  pure,  startlingly  clear 
and  close  in  the  rare  atmosphere. 

We  camped  near  another  water  hole,  located  in  a 
deep,  yellow-colored  gorge,  crumbling  to  pieces,  a 
ruin  of  rock,  and  silent  as  the  grave.  In  the  bottom 
of  the  canon  was  a  pool  of  water,  covered  with  green 
scum.  My  thirst  was  effectually  quenched  by  the 
mere  sight  of  it.  I  slept  poorly,  and  lay  for  hours 
watching  the  great  stars.  The  silence  was  painfully 
oppressive.  If  Jones  had  not  begun  to  give  a  respect 
able  imitation  of  the  exhaust  pipe  on  a  steamboat,  I 
should  have  been  compelled  to  shout  aloud,  or  get 
up;  but  his  snoring  would  have  dispelled  anything. 
The  morning  came  gray  and  cheerless.  I  got  up 
stiff  and  sore,  with  a  tongue  like  a  rope. 

All  day  long  we  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  hot,  flying 
sand.  Night  came  again,  a  cold,  windy  night.  I 
slept  well  until  a  mule  stepped  on  my  bed,  which  was 
conducive  to  restlessness.  At  dawn,  cold,  gray  clouds 
tried  to  blot  out  the  rosy  east.  I  could  hardly  get 
up.  My  lips  were  cracked;  my  tongue  swollen  to 
twice  its  natural  size;  my  eyes  smarted  and  burned. 
The  barrels  and  kegs  of  water  were  exhausted. 
Holes  that  had  been  dug  in  the  dry  sand  of  a  dry 
stream-bed  the  night  before  in  the  morning  yielded 

19 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


a  scant  supply  of  muddy  alkali  water,  which  went  to 
the  horses. 

Only  twice  that  day  did  I  rouse  to  anything  resem 
bling  enthusiasm.  We  came  to  a  stretch  of  country 
showing  the  wonderful  diversity  of  the  desert  land. 
A  long  range  of  beautifully  rounded  clay  dunes  bor 
dered  the  trail.  So  symmetrical  were  they  that  I 
imagined  them  works  of  sculptors.  Light  blue,  dark 
blue,  clay  blue,  marine  blue,  cobalt  blue — every  shade 
of  blue  was  there,  but  no  other  color.  The  other 
time  that  I  awoke  to  sensations  from  without  was 
when  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  ridge.  We  had  been 
passing  through  red-lands.  Jones  called  the  place  a 
strong,  specific  word  which  really  was  illustrative  of 
the  heat  amid  those  scaling  red  ridges.  We  came 
out  where  the  red  changed  abruptly  to  gray.  I 
seemed  always  to  see  things  first,  and  I  cried  out: 
"  Look !  here  are  a  red  lake  and  trees !  " 

"  No,  lad,  not  a  lake,"  said  old  Jim,  smiling  at  me; 
"  that's  what  haunts  the  desert  traveler.  It's  only  a 
mirage!  " 

So  I  awoke  to  the  realization  of  that  illusive  thing, 
the  mirage,  a  beautiful  lie,  false  as  stairs  of  sand. 
Far  northward  a  clear  rippling  lake  sparkled  in  the 
sunshine.  Tall,  stately  trees,  with  waving  green  foli 
age,  bordered  the  water.  For  a  long  moment  it  lay 

there,  smiling  in  the  sun,  a  thing  almost  tangible; 

20 


The  Arizona  Desert 


and  then  it  faded.  I  felt  a  sense  of  actual  loss.  So 
real  had  been  the  illusion  that  I  could  not  believe  I 
was  not  soon  to  drink  and  wade  and  dabble  in  the 
cool  waters.  Disappointment  was  keen.  This  is 
what  maddens  the  prospector  or  sheep-herder  lost  in 
the  desert.  Was  it  not  a  terrible  thing  to  be  dying 
of  thirst,  to  see  sparkling  water,  almost  to  smell  it, 
and  then  realize  suddenly  that  all  was  only  a  lying 
trick  of  the  desert,  a  lure,  a  delusion?  I  ceased  to 
wonder  at  the  Mormons,  and  their  search  for  water, 
their  talk  of  water.  But  I  had  not  realized  its  true 
significance.  I  had  not  known  what  water  was.  I 
had  never  appreciated  it.  So  it  was  my  destiny  to 
learn  that  water  is  the  greatest  thing  on  earth.  I 
hung  over  a  three-foot  hole  in  a  dry  stream-bed,  and 
watched  it  ooze  and  seep  through  the  sand,  and  fill 
up — oh,  so  slowly;  and  I  felt  it  loosen  my  parched 
tongue,  and  steal  through  all  my  dry  body  with 
strength  and  life.  Water  is  said  to  constitute  three 
fourths  of  the  universe.  However  that  may  be,  on 
the  desert  it  is  the  whole  world,  and  all  of  life. 

Two  days  passed  by,  all  hot  sand  and  wind  and 
glare.  The  Mormons  sang  no  more  at  evening; 
Jones  was  silent;  the  dogs  were  limp  as  rags. 

At  Moncaupie  Wash  we  ran  into  a  sandstorm. 
The  horses  turned  their  backs  to  it,  and  bowed  their 

heads  patiently.    The  Mormons  covered  themselves. 

21 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


I  wrapped  a  blanket  round  my  head  and  hid  behind 
a  sage  bush.  The  wind,  carrying  the  sand,  made  a 
strange  hollow  roar.  All  was  enveloped  in  a  weird 
yellow  opacity.  The  sand  seeped  through  the  sage 
bush  and  swept  by  with  a  soft,  rustling  sound,  not 
unlike  the  wind  in  the  rye.  From  time  to  time  I 
raised  a  corner  of  my  blanket  and  peeped  out. 
Where  my  feet  had  stretched  was  an  enormous  mound 
of  sand.  I  felt  the  blanket,  weighted  down,  slowly 
settle  over  me. 

Suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  sandstorm  passed. 
It  left  a  changed  world  for  us.  The  trail  was  cov 
ered;  the  wheels  hub-deep  in  sand;  the  horses,  walk 
ing  sand  dunes.  I  could  not  close  my  teeth  without 
grating  harshly  on  sand. 

We  journeyed  onward,  and  passed  long  lines  of 
petrified  trees,  some  a  hundred  feet  in  length,  lying 
as  they  had  fallen,  thousands  of  years  before.  White 
ants  crawled  among  the  ruins.  Slowly  climbing  the 
sandy  trail,  we  circled  a  great  red  bluff  with  jagged 
peaks,  that  had  seemed  an  interminable  obstacle.  A 
scant  growth  of  cedar  and  sage  again  made  its 
appearance.  Here  we  halted  to  pass  another  night. 
Under  a  cedar  I  heard  the  plaintive,  piteous  bleat  of 
an  animal.  I  searched,  and  presently^ found  a  little 
black  and  white  lamb,  scarcely  able  to  stand.  It 

came  readily  to  me,  and  I  carried  it  to  the  wagon. 

22 


"The  blood-hued  Rio  Colorado." 


The  Arizona  Desert 


"  That's  a  Navajo  lamb,"  said  Emmett.  "  It's 
lost.  There  are  Navajo  Indians  close  by." 

"  'Away  in  the  desert  we  heard  its  cry/  "  quoted 
one  of  the  Mormons. 

Jones  and  I  climbed  the  red  mesa  near  camp  to 
see  the  sunset.  All  the  western  world  was  ablaze  in 
golden  glory.  Shafts  of  light  shot  toward  the  zenith ; 
and  bands  of  paler  gold,  tinging  to  rose,  circled  away 
from  the  fiery,  sinking  globe.  Suddenly  the  sun 
sank,  the  gold  changed  to  gray,  then  to  purple,  and 
shadows  formed  in  the  deep  gorge  at  our  feet.  So 
sudden  was  the  transformation  that  soon  it  was  night, 
the  solemn,  impressive  night  of  the  desert.  A  still 
ness  that  seemed  too  sacred  to  break  clasped  the  place ; 
it  was  infinite ;  it  held  the  bygone  ages,  and  eternity. 

More  days,  and  miles,  miles,  miles!  The  last 
day's  ride  to  the  Big  Colorado  was  unforgettable. 
We  rode  toward  the  head  of  a  gigantic  red  cliff 
pocket,  a  veritable  inferno,  immeasurably  hot,  glar 
ing,  awful.  It  towered  higher  and  higher  above  us. 
When  we  reached  a  point  of  this  red  barrier,  we 
heard  the  dull  rumbling  roar  of  water,  and  we  came 
out,  at  length,  on  a  winding  trail  cut  in  the  face  of 
a  bluff  overhanging  the  Colorado  River.  The  first 
sight  of  most  famous  and  much-heralded  wonders  of 
nature  is  often  disappointing;  but  never  can  this  be 
said  of  the  blood-hued  Rio  Colorado.  If  it  had 

23 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


beauty,  it  was  beauty  that  appalled.  So  riveted  was 
my  gaze  that  I  could  hardly  turn  it  across  the  river, 
where  Emmett  proudly  pointed  out  his  lonely  home 
— an  oasis  set  down  amidst  beetling  red  cliffs.  How 
grateful  to  the  eye  was  the  green  of  alfalfa  and 
cottonwood !  Going  round  the  bluff  trail,  the  wheels 
had  only  a  foot  of  room  to  spare;  and  the  sheer 
descent  into  the  red,  turbid,  congested  river  was 
terrifying. 

I  saw  the  constricted  rapids,  where  the  Colorado 
took  its  plunge  into  the  box-like  head  of  the  Grand 
Canon  of  Arizona ;  and  the  deep,  reverberating  boom 
of  the  river,  at  flood  height,  was  a  fearful  thing  to 
hear.  I  could  not  repress  a  shudder  at  the  thought 
of  crossing  above  that  rapid. 

The  bronze  walls  widened  as  we  proceeded,  and 
we  got  down  presently  to  a  level,  where  a  long  wire 
cable  stretched  across  the  river.  Under  the  cable 
ran  a  rope.  On  the  other  side  was  an  old  scow 
moored  to  the  bank. 

"  Are  we  going  across  in  that?  "  I  asked  Emmett, 
pointing  to  the  boat. 

"  We'll  all  be  on  the  other  side  before  dark,"  he 
replied  cheerily. 

I  felt  that  I  would  rather  start  back  alone  over  the 
desert  than  trust  myself  in  such  a  craft,  on  such  a 
river.  And  it  was  all  because  I  had  had  experience 

24 


The  Arizona  Desert 


with  bad  rivers,  and  thought  I  was  a  judge  of  danger 
ous  currents.  The  Colorado  slid  with  a  menacing 
roar  out  of  a  giant  split  in  the  red  wall,  and  whirled, 
eddied,  bulged  on  toward  its  confinement  in  the  iron- 
ribbed  canon  below. 

In  answer  to  shots  fired,  Emmett's  man  appeared 
on  the  other  side,  and  rode  down  to  the  ferry  land 
ing.  Here  he  got  into  a  skiff,  and  rowed  laboriously 
upstream  for  a  long  distance  before  he  started  across, 
and  then  swung  into  the  current.  He  swept  down 
rapidly,  and  twice  the  skiff  whirled,  and  completely 
turned  round;  but  he  reached  our  bank  safely.  Tak 
ing  two  men  aboard  he  rowed  upstream  again,  close 
to  the  shore,  and  returned  to  the  opposite  side  in 
much  the  same  manner  in  which  he  had  come  over. 

The  three  men  pushed  out  the  scow,  and  grasping 
the  rope  overhead,  began  to  pull.  The  big  craft  ran 
easily.  When  the  current  struck  it,  the  wire  cable 
sagged,  the  water  boiled  and  surged  under  it,  raising 
one  end,  and  then  the  other.  Nevertheless,  five  min 
utes  were  all  that  were  required  to  pull  the  boat  over. 

It  was  a  rude,  oblong  affair,  made  of  heavy  planks, 
loosely  put  together,  and  it  leaked.  When  Jones 
suggested  that  we  get  the  agony  over  as  quickly  as 
possible,  I  was  with  him,  and  we  embarked  together. 
Jones  said  he  did  not  like  the  looks  of  the  tackle; 
and  when  I  thought  of  his  by  no  means  small 

25 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


mechanical  skill,  I  had  not  added  a  cheerful  idea  to 
my  consciousness.  The  horses  of  the  first  team  had 
to  be  dragged  upon  the  scow,  and  once  on,  they 
reared  and  plunged. 

When  we  started,  four  men  pulled  the  rope,  and 
Emmett  sat  in  the  stern,  with  the  tackle  guys  in  hand. 
As  the  current  hit  us,  he  let  out  the  guys,  which 
maneuver  caused  the  boat  to  swing  stern  down 
stream.  When  it  pointed  obliquely,  he  made  fast 
the  guys  again.  I  saw  that  this  served  two  purposes : 
the  current  struck,  slid  alongside,  and  over  the  stern, 
which  mitigated  the  danger,  and  at  the  same  time 
helped  the  boat  across. 

To  look  at  the  river  was  to  court  terror,  but  I  had 
to  look.  It  was  an  infernal  thing.  It  roared  in 
hollow,  sullen  voice,  as  a  monster  growling.  It  had 
a  voice,  this  river,  and  one  strangely  changeful.  It 
moaned  as  if  in  pain — it  whined,  it  cried.  Then  at 
times  it  would  seem  strangely  silent.  The  current 
was  as  complex  and  mutable  as  human  life.  It  boiled, 
beat  and  bulged.  The  bulge  itself  was  an  incompre 
hensible  thing,  like  a  roaring  lift  of  the  waters  from 
a  submarine  explosion.  Then  it  would  smooth  out, 
and  run  like  oil.  It  shifted  from  one  channel  to 
another,  rushed  to  the  center  of  the  river,  then  swung 
close  to  one  shore  or  the  other.  Again  it  swelled  near 

the  boat,  in  great,  boiling,  hissing  eddies. 

26 


The  Arizona  Desert 


"  Look!  See  where  it  breaks  through  the  moun 
tain!  "  yelled  Jones  in  my  ear. 

I  looked  upstream  to  see  the  stupendous  granite 
walls  separated  in  a  gigantic  split  that  must  have 
been  made  by  a  terrible  seismic  disturbance;  and 
from  this  gap  poured  the  dark,  turgid,  mystic  flood. 

I  was  in  a  cold  sweat  when  we  touched  shore,  and 
I  jumped  long  before  the  boat  was  properly  moored. 

Emmett  was  wet  to  the  waist  where  the  water  had 
surged  over  him.  As  he  sat  rearranging  some  tackle 
I  remarked  to  him  that  of  course  he  must  be  a  splen 
did  swimmer,  or  he  would  not  take  such  risks. 

"No,  I  can't  swim  a  stroke,"  he  replied;  "and 
it  wouldn't  be  any  use  if  I  could.  Once  in  there  a 
man's  a  goner." 

"You've  had  bad  accidents  here?"  I  questioned. 

"  No,  not  bad.  We  only  drowned  two  men  last 
year.  You  see,  we  had  to  tow  the  boat  up  the  river, 
and  row  across,  as  then  we  hadn't  the  wire.  Just 
above,  on  this  side,  the  boat  hit  a  stone,  and  the  cur 
rent  washed  over  her,  taking  off  the  team  and  two 
men." 

"  Didn't  you  attempt  to  rescue  them?"  I  asked, 
after  waiting  a  moment. 

"  No  use.     They  never  came  up." 

"  Isn't  the  river  high  now?  "  I  continued,  shudder 
ing  as  I  glanced  out  at  the  whirling  logs  and  drifts. 

27 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  High,  and  coming  up.  If  I  don't  get  the  other 
teams  over  to-day  I'll  wait  until  she  goes  down.  At 
this  season  she  rises  and  lowers  every  day  or  so, 
until  June;  then  comes  the  big  flood,  and  we  don't 
cross  for  months." 

I  sat  for  three  hours  watching  Emmett  bring  over 
the  rest  of  his  party,  which  he  did  without  accident, 
but  at  the  expense  of  great  effort.  And  all  the  time 
in  my  ears  dinned  the  roar,  the  boom,  the  rumble 
of  this  singularly  rapacious  and  purposeful  river — a 
river  of  silt,  a  red  river  of  dark,  sinister  meaning,  a 
river  with  terrible  work  to  perform,  a  river  which 
never  gave  up  its  dead. 


28 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  RANGE 

A~TER  a  much-needed  rest  at  Emmett's,   we 
bade    good-by    to    him    and   his    hospitable 
family,  and  under  the  guidance  of  his  man 
once  more  took  to  the  wind-swept  trail.    We  pursued 
a  southwesterly  course  now,   following  the  lead  of 
the  craggy  red  wall  that  stretched  on  and  on  for 
hundreds  of  miles  into  Utah.     The  desert,  smoky 
and  hot,  fell  away  to  the  left,  and  in  the  foreground 
a  dark,  irregular  line  marked  the  Grand  Canon  cut 
ting  through  the  plateau. 

The  wind  whipped  in  from  the  vast,  open  expanse, 
and  meeting  an  obstacle  in  the  red  wall,  turned  north 
and  raced  past  us.  Jones's  hat  blew  off,  stood  on 
its  rim,  and  rolled.  It  kept  on  rolling,  thirty  miles 
an  hour,  more  or  less;  so  fast,  at  least,  that  we  were 
a  long  time  catching  up  to  it  with  a  team  of  horses. 
Possibly  we  never  would  have  caught  it  had  not  a 
stone  checked  its  flight.  Further  manifestation  of 
the  power  of  the  desert  wind  surrounded  us  on  all 
sides.  It  had  hollowed  out  huge  stones  from  the 
cliffs,  and  tumbled  them  to  the  plain  below;  and 

29 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


then,  sweeping  sand  and  gravel  low  across  the  desert 
floor,  had  cut  them  deeply,  until  they  rested  on 
slender  pedestals,  thus  sculptoring  grotesque  and 
striking  monuments  to  the  marvelous  persistence  of 
this  element  of  nature. 

Late  that  afternoon,  as  we  reached  the  height  of 
the  plateau,  Jones  woke  up  and  shouted:  "Ha! 
there's  Buckskin !  " 

Far  southward  lay  a  long,  black  mountain,  covered 
with  patches  of  shining  snow.  I  could  follow  the 
zigzag  line  of  the  Grand  Canon  splitting  the  desert 
plateau,  and  saw  it  disappear  in  the  haze  round  the 
end  of  the  mountain.  From  this  I  got  my  first  clear 
impression  of  the  topography  of  the  country  sur 
rounding  our  objective  point.  Buckskin  mountain 
ran  its  blunt  end  eastward  to  the  canon — in  fact, 
formed  a  hundred  miles  of  the  north  rim.  As  it  was 
nine  thousand  feet  high  it  still  held  the  snow,  which 
had  occasioned  our  lengthy  desert  ride  to  get  back  of 
the  mountain.  I  could  see  the  long  slopes  rising  out 
of  the  desert  to  meet  the  timber. 

As  we  bowled  merrily  down  grade  I  noticed  that 
we  were  no  longer  on  stony  ground,  and  that  a  little 
scant  silvery  grass  had  made  its  appearance.  Then 
little  branches  of  green,  with  a  blue  flower,  smiled 
out  of  the  clayish  sand. 

All  of  a  sudden  Jones  stood  up,  and  let  out  a  wild 

30 


The  Range 


Comanche  yell.  I  was  more  startled  by  the  yell  than 
by  the  great  hand  he  smashed  down  on  my  shoulder, 
and  for  the  moment  I  was  dazed. 

"  There !  look !  look !  the  buffalo !    Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  " 

Below  us,  a  few  miles  on  a  rising  knoll,  a  big  herd 
of  buffalo  shone  black  in  the  gold  of  the  evening  sun. 
I  had  not  Jones's  incentive,  but  I  felt  enthusiasm 
born  of  the  wild  and  beautiful  picture,  and  added 
my  yell  to  his.  The  huge,  burly  leader  of  the  herd 
lifted  his  head,  and  after  regarding  us  for  a  few 
moments  calmly  went  on  browsing. 

The  desert  had  fringed  away  into  a  grand  rolling 
pastureland,  walled  in  by  the  red  cliffs,  the  slopes  of 
Buckskin,  and  further  isolated  by  the  canon.  Here 
was  a  range  of  twenty-four  hundred  square  miles 
without  a  foot  of  barb-wire,  a  pasture  fenced  in  by 
natural  forces,  with  the  splendid  feature  that  the 
buffalo  could  browse  on  the  plain  in  winter,  and 
go  up  into  the  cool  foothills  of  Buckskin  in  summer. 

From  another  ridge  we  saw  a  cabin  dotting  the 
rolling  plain,  and  in  half  an  hour  we  reached  it.  As 
we  climbed  down  from  the  wagon  a  brown  and  black 
dog  came  dashing  out  of  the  cabin,  and  promptly 
jumped  at  Moze.  His  selection  showed  poor  dis 
crimination,  for  Moze  whipped  him  before  I  could 
separate  them.  Hearing  Jones  heartily  greeting 
some  one,  I  turned  in  his  direction,  only  to  be 

31 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


distracted  by  another  dog  fight.  Don  had  tackled 
Moze  for  the  seventh  time.  Memory  rankled  in 
Don,  and  he  needed  a  lot  of  whipping,  some  of  which 
he  was  getting  when  I  rescued  him. 

Next  moment  I  was  shaking  hands  with  Frank  and 
Jim,  Jones's  ranchmen.  At  a  glance  I  liked  them 
both.  Frank  was  short  and  wiry,  and  had  a  big, 
ferocious  mustache,  the  effect  of  which  was  softened 
by  his  kindly  brown  eyes.  Jim  was  tall,  a  little 
heavier;  he  had  a  careless,  tidy  look;  his  eyes  were 
searching,  and  though  he  appeared  a  young  man,  his 
hair  was  white. 

"  I  shore  am  glad  to  see  you  all,"  said  Jim,  in  slow, 
soft,  Southern  accent. 

"  Get  down,  get  down,"  was  Frank's  welcome — a 
typically  Western  one,  for  we  had  already  gotten 
down;  "  an'  come  in.  You  must  be  worked  out. 
Sure  you've  come  a  long  way."  He  was  quick  of 
speech,  full  of  nervous  energy,  and  beamed  with 
hospitality. 

The  cabin  was  the  rudest  kind  of  log  affair,  with  a 
huge  stone  fireplace  in  one  end,  deer  antlers  and 
coyote  skins  on  the  wall,  saddles  and  cowboys'  traps 
in  a  corner,  a  nice,  large,  promising  cupboard,  and  a 
table  and  chairs.  Jim  threw  wood  on  a  smoldering 
fire,  that  soon  blazed  and  crackled  cheerily. 

I  sank  down  into  a  chair  with  a  feeling  of  blessed 


The  Range 


relief.  Ten  days  of  desert  ride  behind  me !  Promise 
of  wonderful  days  before  me,  with  the  last  of  the  old 
plainsmen!  No  wonder  a  sweet  sense  of  ease  stole 
over  me,  or  that  the  fire  seemed  a  live  and  joyously 
welcoming  thing,  or  that  Jim's  deft  maneuvers  in 
preparation  of  supper  roused  in  me  a  rapt  admiration. 

"  Twenty  calves  this  spring!  "  cried  Jones,  punch 
ing  me  in  my  sore  side.  "  Ten  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  calves !  " 

He  was  now  altogether  a  changed  man ;  he  looked 
almost  young;  his  eyes  danced,  and  he  rubbed  his  big 
hands  together  while  he  plied  Frank  with  questions. 
In  strange  surroundings — that  is,  away  from  his 
native  wilds,  Jones  had  been  a  silent  man;  it  had  been 
almost  impossible  to  get  anything  out  of  him.  But 
now  I  saw  that  I  should  come  to  know  the  real  man. 
In  a  very  few  moments  he  had  talked  more  than  on 
all  the  desert  trip,  and  what  he  said,  added  to  the 
little  I  had  already  learned,  put  me  in  possession  of 
some  interesting  information  as  to  his  buffalo. 

Some  years  before  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
hybridizing  buffalo  with  black  Galloway  cattle;  and 
with  the  characteristic  determination  and  energy  of 
the  man,  he  at  once  set  about  finding  a  suitable  range. 
This  was  difficult,  and  took  years  of  searching.  At 
last  the  wild  north  rim  of  the  Grand  Canon,  a  section 
unknown  except  to  a  few  Indians  and  mustang 

33 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


hunters,  was  settled  upon.  Then  the  gigantic  task 
of  transporting  the  herd  of  buffalo  by  rail  from  Mon 
tana  to  Salt  Lake  was  begun.  The  two  hundred  and 
ninety  miles  of  desert  lying  between  the  home  of  the 
Mormons  and  Buckskin  Mountain  was  an  obstacle 
almost  insurmountable.  The  journey  was  under 
taken  and  found  even  more  trying  than  had  been 
expected.  Buffalo  after  buffalo  died  on  the  way. 
Then  Frank,  Jones's  right-hand  man,  put  into  execu 
tion  a  plan  he  had  been  thinking  of — namely,  to 
travel  by  night.  It  succeeded.  The  buffalo  rested 
in  the  day  and  traveled  by  easy  stages  by  night,  with 
the  result  that  the  big  herd  was  transported  to  the 
ideal  range. 

Here,  in  an  environment  strange  to  their  race,  but 
peculiarly  adaptable,  they  thrived  and  multiplied. 
The  hybrid  of  the  Galloway  cow  and  buffalo  proved 
a  great  success.  Jones  called  the  new  species 
"  Cattalo."  The  cattalo  took  the  hardiness  of  the 
buffalo,  and  never  required  artificial  food  or  shelter. 
He  would  face  the  desert  storm  or  blizzard  and  stand 
stock  still  in  his  tracks  until  the  weather  cleared.  He 
became  quite  domestic,  could  be  easily  handled,  and 
grew  exceedingly  fat  on  very  little  provender.  The 
folds  of  his  stomach  were  so  numerous  that  they 
digested  even  the  hardest  and  flintiest  of  corn. 
He  had  fourteen  ribs  pn  each  side,  while  domestic 

34 


I  t  \ 


f         ,2 


I™ 


The  Range 


cattle  had  only  thirteen;  thus  he  could  endure 
rougher  work  and  longer  journeys  to  water.  His 
fur  was  so  dense  and  glossy  that  it  equaled  that 
of  the  unplucked  beaver  or  otter,  and  was  fully  as 
valuable  as  the  buffalo  robe.  And  not  to  be  over 
looked  by  any  means  was  the  fact  that  his  meat  was 
delicious. 

Jones  had  to  hear  every  detail  of  all  that  had 
happened  since  his  absence  in  the  East,  and  he  was 
particularly  inquisitive  to  learn  all  about  the  twenty 
cattalo  calves.  He  called  different  buffalo  by  name ; 
and  designated  the  calves  by  descriptive  terms,  such 
as  "  Whiteface  "  and  u  Crosspatch."  He  almost 
forgot  to  eat,  and  kept  Frank  too  busy  to  get  any 
thing  into  his  own  mouth.  After  supper  he  calmed 
down. 

"  How  about  your  other  man — Mr.  Wallace,  I 
think  you  said?  "  asked  Frank. 

"  We  expected  to  meet  him  at  Grand  Canon 
Station,  and  then  at  Flagstaff.  But  he  didn't  show 
up.  Either  he  backed  out  or  missed  us.  Fm  sorry; 
for  when  we  get  up  on  Buckskin,  among  the  wild 
horses  and  cougars,  we'll  be  likely  to  need  him." 

"  I  reckon  you'll  need  me,  as  well  as  Jim,"  said 
Frank  dryly,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  The  buffs 
are  in  good  shape  an'  can  get  along  without  me  for 
a  while." 

35 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  That'll  be  fine.  How  about  cougar  sign  on  the 
mountain?  " 

"  Plenty.  I've  got  two  spotted  near  Oak  Spring. 
Comin'  over  two  weeks  ago  I  tracked  them  in  the 
snow  along  the  trail  for  miles.  We'll  ooze  over  that 
way,  as  it's  goin'  toward  the  Siwash.  The  Siwash 
breaks  of  the  canon — there's  the  place  for  lions.  I 
met  a  wild-horse  wrangler  not  long  back,  an'  he  was 
tellin'  me  about  Old  Tom  an'  the  colts  he'd  killed  this 
winter." 

Naturally,  I  here  expressed  a  desire  to  know  more 
of  Old  Tom. 

"  He's  the  biggest  cougar  ever  known  of  in  these 
parts.  His  tracks  are  bigger  than  a  horse's,  an'  have 
been  seen  on  Buckskin  for  twelve  years.  This  wran 
gler — his  name  is  Clark — said  he'd  turned  his  saddle 
horse  out  to  graze  near  camp,  an'  Old  Tom  sneaked 
in  an'  downed  him.  The  lions  over  there  are  sure  a 
bold  bunch.  Well,  why  shouldn't  they  be  ?  No  one 
ever  hunted  them.  You  see,  the  mountain  is  hard  to 
get  at.  But  now  you're  here,  if  it's  big  cats  you  want, 
we  sure  can  find  them.  Only  be  easy,  be  easy. 
You've  all  the  time  there  is.  An'  any  job  on  Buck 
skin  will  take  time.  We'll  look  the  calves  over,  an' 
you  must  ride  the  range  to  harden  up.  Then  we'll 
ooze  over  toward  Oak.  I  expect  it'll  be  boggy,  an' 

I  hope  the  snow  melts  soon." 

36 


The  Range 


"  The  snow  hadn't  melted  on  Greenland  point," 
replied  Jones.  "  We  saw  that  with  a  glass  from  the 
El  Tovar.  We  wanted  to  cross  that  way,  but  Rust  said 
Bright  Angel  Creek  was  breast  high  to  a  horse,  and 
that  creek  is  the  trail." 

"  There's  four  feet  of  snow  on  Greenland,"  said 
Frank.  "  It  was  too  early  to  come  that  way.  There's 
only  about  three  months  in  the  year  the  canon  can 
be  crossed  at  Greenland." 

"  I  want  to  get  in  the  snow,"  returned  Jones. 
"  This  bunch  of  long-eared  canines  I  brought  never 
smelled  a  lion  track.  Hounds  can't  be  trained  quick 
without  snow.  You've  got  to  see  what  they're  trail 
ing,  or  you  can't  break  them." 

Frank  looked  dubious.  "  'Pears  to  me  we'll  have 
trouble  gettin'  a  lion  without  lion  dogs.  It  takes  a 
long  time  to  break  a  hound  off  of  deer,  once  he's 
chased  them.  Buckskin  is  full  of  deer,  wolves,  coy 
otes,  and  there's  the  wild  horses.  We  couldn't  go  a 
hundred  feet  without  crossin'  trails." 

"  How's  the  hound  you  and  Jim  fetched  in  last 
year?  Has  he  got  a  good  nose?  Here  he  is — I  like 
his  head.  Come  here,  Bowser — what's  his  name?" 

"  Jim  named  him  Sounder,  because  he  sure  has  a 
voice.  It's  great  to  hear  him  on  a  trail.  Sounder 
has  a  nose  that  can't  be  fooled,  an'  he'll  trail  any- 
thin'  ;  but  I  don't  know  if  he  ever  got  up  a  lion." 

37 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Sounder  wagged  his  bushy  tail  and  looked  up  affec 
tionately  at  Frank.  He  had  a  fine  head,  great  brown 
eyes,  very  long  ears  and  curly  brownish-black  hair. 
He  was  not  demonstrative,  looked  rather  askance 
at  Jones,  and  avoided  the  other  dogs. 

"  That  dog  will  make  a  great  lion-chaser,"  said 
Jones,  decisively,  after  his  study  of  Sounder.  "  He 
and  Moze  will  keep  us  busy,  once  they  learn  we  want 
lions." 

"  I  don't  believe  any  dog-trainer  could  teach  them 
short  of  six  months,"  replied  Frank.  "  Sounder  is 
no  spring  chicken;  an'  that  black  and  dirty  white 
cross  between  a  cayuse  an'  a  barb-wire  fence  is  an 
old  dog.  You  can't  teach  old  dogs  new  tricks." 

Jones  smiled  mysteriously,  a  smile  of  conscious 
superiority,  but  said  nothing. 

"  We'll  shore  hev  a  storm  to-morrow,"  said  Jim, 
relinquishing  his  pipe  long  enough  to  speak.  He  had 
been  silent,  and  now  his  meditative  gaze  was  on  the 
west,  through  the  cabin  window,  where  a  dull  after 
glow  faded  under  the  heavy  laden  clouds  of  night 
and  left  the  horizon  dark. 

I  was  very  tired  when  I  lay  down,  but  so  full  of 
excitement  that  sleep  did  not  soon  visit  my  eyelids. 
The  talk  about  buffalo,  wild-horse  hunters,  lions  and 
dogs,  the  prospect  of  hard  riding  and  unusual  adven 
ture  ;  the  vision  of  Old  Tom  that  had  already  begun 

38 


The  Range 


to  haunt  me,  filled  my  mind  with  pictures  and  fancies. 
The  other  fellows  dropped  off  to  sleep,  and  quiet 
reigned.  Suddenly  a  succession  of  queer,  sharp 
barks  came  from  the  plain,  close  to  the  cabin. 
Coyotes  were  paying  us  a  call,  and  judging  from 
the  chorus  of  yelps  and  howls  from  our  dogs,  it  was 
not  a  welcome  visit.  Above  the  medley  rose  one  big, 
deep,  full  voice  that  I  knew  at  once  belonged  to 
Sounder.  Then  all  was  quiet  again.  Sleep  gradually 
benumbed  my  senses.  Vague  phrases  dreamily 
drifted  to  and  fro  in  my  mind:  "  Jones's  wild  range 
— Old  Tom — Sounder — great  name — great  voice — 
Sounder!  Sounder!  Sound " 

Next  morning  I  could  hardly  crawl  out  of  my 
sleeping-bag.  My  bones  ached,  my  muscles  protested 
excruciatingly,  my  lips  burned  and  bled,  and  the  cold 
I  had  contracted  on  the  desert  clung  to  me.  A  good 
brisk  walk  round  the  corrals,  and  then  breakfast, 
made  me  feel  better. 

"  Of  course  you  can  ride?  "  queried  Frank. 

My  answer  was  not  given  from  an  overwhelming 
desire  to  be  truthful.  Frank  frowned  a  little,  as  if 
wondering  how  a  man  could  have  the  nerve  to  start 
out  on  a  jaunt  with  Buffalo  Jones  without  being  a 
good  horseman.  To  be  unable  to  stick  on  the  back 
of  a  wild  mustang,  or  a  cayuse,  was  an  unpardonable 
sin  in  Arizona.  My  frank  admission  was  made  rela- 

39 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


tively,  with  my  mind  on  what  cowboys  held  as  a 
standard  of  horsemanship. 

The  mount  Frank  trotted  out  of  the  corral  for 
me  was  a  pure  white,  beautiful  mustang,  nervous, 
sensitive,  quivering.  I  watched  Frank  put  on  the 
saddle,  and  when  he  called  me  I  did  not  fail  to 
catch  a  covert  twinkle  in  his  merry  brown  eyes. 
Looking  away  toward  Buckskin  Mountain,  which 
was  coincidentally  in  the  direction  of  home,  I  said  to 
myself:  "This  may  be  where  you  get  on,  but  most 
certainly  it  is  where  you  get  off !  " 

Jones  was  already  riding  far  beyond  the  corral, 
as  I  could  see  by  a  cloud  of  djist;  and  I  set  off  after 
him,  with  the  painful  consciousness  that  I  must  have 
looked  to  Frank  and  Jim  much  as  Central  Park 
equestrians  had  often  looked  to  me.  Frank  shouted 
after  me  that  he  would  catch  up  with  us  out  on  the 
range.  I  was  not  in  any  great  hurry  to  overtake 
Jones,  but  evidently  my  horse's  inclinations  differed 
from  mine;  at  any  rate,  he  made  the  dust  fly,  and 
jumped  the  little  sage  bushes. 

Jones,  who  had  tarried  to  inspect  one  of  the  pools 
— formed  of  running  water  from  the  corrals — 
greeted  me  as  I  came  up  with  this  cheerful  observa 
tion: 

"  What  in  thunder  did  Frank  give  you  that  white 
nag  for?  The  buffalo  hate  white  horses — anything 

40 


The  Range 


white.  They're  liable  to  stampede  off  the  range,  or 
chase  you  into  the  canon." 

I  replied  grimly  that,  as  it  was  certain  something 
was  going  to  happen,  the  particular  circumstance 
might  as  well  come  off  quickly. 

We  rode  over  the  rolling  plain  with  a  cool,  brac 
ing  breeze  in  our  faces.  The  sky  was  dull  and 
mottled  with  a  beautiful  cloud  effect  that  presaged 
wind.  As  we  trotted  along  Jones  pointed  out  to  me 
and  descanted  upon  the  nutritive  value  of  three  dif 
ferent  kinds  of  grass,  one  of  which  he  called  the 
Buffalo  Pea,  noteworthy  for  a  beautiful  blue  blossom. 
Soon  we  passed  out  of  sight  of  the  cabin,  and  could 
see  only  the  billowy  plain,  the  red  tips  of  the  stony 
wall,  and  the  black-fringed  crest  of  Buckskin.  After 
riding  a  while  we  made  out  some  cattle,  a  few  of 
which  were  on  the  range,  browsing  in  the  lee  of  a 
ridge.  No  sooner  had  I  marked  them  than  Jones 
let  out  another  Comanche  yell. 

"  Wolf!  "  he  yelled;  and  spurring  his  big  bay,  he 
was  off  like  the  wind. 

A  single  glance  showed  me  several  cows  running 
as  if  bewildered,  and  near  them  a  big  white  wolf 
pulling  down  a  calf.  Another  white  wolf  stood  not 
far  off.  My  horse  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  shot; 
and  the  realization  darted  upon  me  that  here  was 
where  the  certain  something  began.  Spot — the  mus- 

41 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


tang  had  one  black  spot  in  his  pure  white — snorted 
like  I  imagined  a  blooded  horse  might,  under  dire 
insult.  Jones's  bay  had  gotten  about  a  hundred  paces 
the  start.  I  lived  to  learn  that  Spot  hated  to  be  left 
behind;  moreover,  he  would  not  be  left  behind;  he 
was  the  swiftest  horse  on  the  range,  and  proud  of 
the  distinction.  I  cast  one  unmentionable  word  on 
the  breeze  toward  the  cabin  and  Frank,  then  put 
mind  and  muscle  to  the  sore  task  of  remaining  with 
Spot.  Jones  was  born  on  a  saddle,  and  had  been 
taking  his  meals  in  a  saddle  for  about  sixty-three 
years,  and  the  bay  horse  could  run.  Run  is  not  a 
felicitous  word — he  flew.  And  I  was  rendered  men 
tally  deranged  for  the  moment  to  see  that  hundred 
paces  between  the  bay  and  Spot  materially  lessen  at 
every  jump.  Spot  lengthened  out,  seemed  to  go 
down  near  the  ground,  and  cut  the  air  like  a  high- 
geared  auto.  If  I  had  not  heard  the  fast  rhythmic 
beat  of  his  hoofs,  and  had  not  bounced  high  into  the 
air  at  every  jump,  I  would  have  been  sure  I  was  rid 
ing  a  bird.  I  tried  to  stop  him.  As  well  might  I 
have  tried  to  pull  in  the  Lusitania  with  a  thread. 
Spot  was  out  to  overhaul  that  bay,  and  in  spite  of 
me,  he  was  doing  it.  The  wind  rushed  into  my  face 
and  sang  in  my  ears.  Jones  seemed  the  nucleus  of  a 
sort  of  haze,  and  he  grew  larger  and  larger.  Pres 
ently  he  became  clearly  defined  in  my  sight;  the 

42 


The  Range 


violent  commotion  under  me  subsided;  I  once  more 
felt  the  saddle,  and  then  I  realized  that  Spot  had 
been  content  to  stop  alongside  of  Jones,  tossing  his 
head  and  champing  his  bit. 

"Well,  by  George!  I  didn't  know  you  were  in 
the  stretch,"  cried  my  companion.  "  That  was  a  fine 
little  brush.  We  must  have  come  several  miles.  I'd 
have  killed  those  wolves  if  I'd  brought  a  gun.  The 
big  one  that  had  the  calf  was  a  bold  brute.  He 
never  let  go  until  I  was  within  fifty  feet  of  him. 
Then  I  almost  rode  him  down.  I  don't  think  the 
calf  was  much  hurt.  But  those  blood-thirsty  devils 
will  return,  and  like  as  not  get  the  calf.  That's 
the  worst  of  cattle  raising.  Now,  take  the  buffalo. 
Do  you  suppose  those  wolves  could  have  gotten  a 
buffalo  calf  out  from  under  the  mother?  Never. 
Neither  could  a  whole  band  of  wolves.  Buffalo  stick 
close  together,  and  the  little  ones  do  not  stray.  When 
danger  threatens,  the  herd  closes  in  and  faces  it  and 
fights.  That  is  what  is  grand  about  the  buffalo  and 
what  made  them  once  roam  the  prairies  in  countless, 
endless  droves." 

From  the  highest  elevation  in  that  part  of  the 
range  we  viewed  the  surrounding  ridges,  flats  and 
hollows,  searching  for  the  buffalo.  At  length  we 
spied  a  cloud  of  dust  rising  from  behind  an  undulat 
ing  mound,  then  big  black  dots  hove  in  sight. 

43 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  Frank  has  rounded  up  the  herd,  and  is  driving  it 
this  way.  We'll  wait,"  said  Jones. 

Though  the  buffalo  appeared  to  be  moving  fast, 
a  long  time  elapsed  before  they  reached  the  foot  of 
our  outlook.  They  lumbered  along  in  a  compact 
mass,  so  dense  that  I  could  not  count  them,  but  I 
estimated  the  number  at  seventy-five.  Frank  was 
riding  zigzag  behind  them,  swinging  his  lariat  and 
yelling.  When  he  espied  us  he  reined  in  his  horse 
and  waited.  Then  the  herd  slowed  down,  halted 
and  began  browsing. 

"  Look  at  the  cattalo  calves,"  cried  Jones,  in 
ecstatic  tones.  "  See  how  shy  they  are,  how  close 
they  stick  to  their  mothers." 

The  little  dark-brown  fellows  were  plainly  fright 
ened.  I  made  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  photo 
graph  them,  and  gave  it  up  when  Jones  told  me  not 
to  ride  too  close  and  that  it  would  be  better  to  wait 
till  we  had  them  in  the  corral. 

He  took  my  camera  and  instructed  me  to  go  on 
ahead,  in  the  rear  of  the  herd.  I  heard  the  click 
of  the  instrument  as  he  snapped  a  picture,  and  then 
suddenly  heard  him  shout  in  alarm:  "Look  out! 
look  out !  pull  your  horse !  " 

Thundering  hoof-beats  pounding  the  earth  accom 
panied  his  words.  I  saw  a  big  bull,  with  head  down, 
tail  raised,  charging  my  horse.  He  answered  Frank's 

44 


The  Range 


yell  of  command  with  a  furious  grunt.  I  was  para 
lyzed  at  the  wonderfully  swift  action  of  the  shaggy 
brute,  and  I  sat  helpless.  Spot  wheeled  as  if  he  were 
on  a  pivot  and  plunged  out  of  the  way  with  a 
celerity  that  was  astounding.  The  buffalo  stopped, 
pawed  the  ground,  and  angrily  tossed  his  huge  head. 
Frank  rode  up  to  him,  yelled,  and  struck  him  with 
the  lariat,  whereupon  he  gave  another  toss  of  his 
horns,  and  then  returned  to  the  herd. 

"  It  was  that  darned  white  nag,"  said  Jones. 
"  Frank,  it  was  wrong  to  put  an  inexperienced  man 
on  Spot.  For  that  matter,  the  horse  should  never 
be  allowed  to  go  near  the  buffalo." 

"  Spot  knows  the  buffs;  they'd  never  get  to  him," 
replied  Frank.  But  the  usual  spirit  was  absent  from 
his  voice,  and  he  glanced  at  me  soberly.  I  knew  I 
had  turned  white,  for  I  felt  the  peculiar  cold  sensa 
tion  in  my  face. 

"  Now,  look  at  that,  will  you?  "  cried  Jones.  "  I 
don't  like  the  looks  of  that." 

He  pointed  to  the  herd.  They  stopped  browsing, 
and  were  uneasily  shifting  to  and  fro.  The  bull 
lifted  his  head;  the  others  slowly  grouped  together. 

"  Storm !  Sandstorm!  "  exclaimed  Jones,  pointing 
rt-ward.  Dark  yellow  clouds  like  smoke  were 
ing,  sweeping,  bearing  down  upon  us.  They 
expanded,  blossoming  out  like  gigantic  roses,  and 

45 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


whirled  and  merged  into  one  another,  all  the  time 
rolling  on  and  blotting  out  the  light. 

u  We've  got  to  run.  That  storm  may  last  two 
days,"  yelled  Frank  to  me.  "  We've  had  some  bad 
ones  lately.  Give  your  horse  free  rein,  and  cover 
your  face." 

A  roar,  resembling  an  approaching  storm  at  sea, 
came  on  puffs  of  wind,  as  the  horses  got  into  their 
stride.  Long  streaks  of  dust  whipped  up  in  different 
places;  the  silver-white  grass  bent  to  the  ground; 
round  bunches  of  sage  went  rolling  before  us.  The 
puffs  grew  longer,  steadier,  harder.  Then  a  shriek 
ing  blast  howled  on  our  trail,  seeming  to  swoop 
down  on  us  with  a  yellow,  blinding  pall.  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  covered  my  face  with  a  handkerchief. 
The  sand  blew  so  thick  that  it  filled  my  gloves,  peb 
bles  struck  me  hard  enough  to  sting  through  my 
coat. 

Fortunately,  Spot  kept  to  an  easy  swinging  lope, 
which  was  the  most  comfortable  motion  for  me.  But 
I  began  to  get  numb,  and  could  hardly  stick  on  the 
saddle.  Almost  before  I  had  dared  to  hope,  Spot 
stopped.  Uncovering  my  face,  I  saw  Jim  in  the 
doorway  of  the  lee  side  of  the  cabin.  The  yellow, 
streaky,  whistling  clouds  of  sand  split  on  the  cabin 
and  passed  on,  leaving  a  small,  dusty  space  of  light. 

"  Shore  Spot  do  hate  to  be  beat,"  yelled  Jim,  as  he 

46 


The  Range 


helped  me  off.  I  stumbled  into  the  cabin  and  fell 
upon  a  buffalo  robe  and  lay  there  absolutely  spent. 
Jones  and  Frank  came  in  a  few  minutes  apart,  each 
anathematizing  the  gritty,  powdery  sand. 

All  day  the  desert  storm  raged  and  roared.  The 
dust  sifted  through  the  numerous  cracks  in  the  cabin, 
burdened  our  clothes,  spoiled  our  food  and  blinded 
our  eyes.  Wind,  snow,  sleet  and  rainstorms  are 
discomforting  enough  under  trying  circumstances; 
but  all  combined,  they  are  nothing  to  the  choking, 
stinging,  blinding  sandstorm. 

"  Shore  it'll  let  up  by  sundown,"  averred  Jim. 
And  sure  enough  the  roar  died  away  about  five 
o'clock,  the  wind  abated  and  the  sand  settled. 

Just  before  supper,  a  knock  sounded  heavily  on 
the  cabin  door.  Jim  opened  it  to  admit  one  of 
Emmett's  sons  and  a  very  tall  man  whom  none  of  us 
knew.  He  was  a  sand-man.  All  that  was  not  sand 
seemed  a  space  or  two  of  corduroy,  a  big  bone- 
handled  knife,  a  prominent  square  jaw  and  bronzed 
cheek  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  Get  down — get  down,  an'  come  in,  stranger," 
said  Frank  cordially. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir,"  said  Jones. 

"  Colonel  Jones,  I've  been  on  your  trail  for  twelve 
days,"  announced  the  stranger,  with  a  grim  smile. 
The  sand  streamed  off  his  coat  in  little  white  streaks. 

47 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Jones  appeared  to  be  casting  about  in  his  mind. 

u  I'm  Grant  Wallace,"  continued  the  newcomer. 
"  I  missed  you  at  the  El  Tovar,  at  Williams  and  at 
Flagstaff,  where  I  was  one  day  behind.  Was  half  a 
day  late  at  the  Little  Colorado,  saw  your  train  cross 
Moncaupie  Wash,  and  missed  you  because  of  the 
sandstorm  there.  Saw  you  from  the  other  side  of 
the  Big  Colorado  as  you  rode  out  from  Emmett's 
along  the  red  wall.  And  here  I  am.  We've  never 
met  till  now,  which  obviously  isn't  my  fault." 

The  Colonel  and  I  fell  upon  Wallace's  neck. 
Frank  manifested  his  usual  alert  excitation,  and  said : 
"  Well,  I  guess  he  won't  hang  fire  on  a  long  cougar 
chase."  And  Jim — slow,  careful  Jim,  dropped  a 
plate  with  the  exclamation:  "  Shore  it  do  beat  hell!  " 
The  hounds  sniffed  round  Wallace,  and  welcomed 
him  with  vigorous  tails. 

Supper  that  night,  even  if  we  did  grind  sand  with 
our  teeth,  was  a  joyous  occasion.  The  biscuits  were 
flaky  and  light;  the  bacon  fragrant  and  crisp.  I 
produced  a  jar  of  blackberry  jam,  which  by  subtle 
cunning  I  had  been  able  to  secrete  from  the  Mormons 
on  that  dry  desert  ride,  and  it  was  greeted  with 
acclamations  of  pleasure.  Wallace,  divested  of  his 
sand  guise,  beamed  with  the  gratification  of  a  hungry 
man  once  more  in  the  presence  of  friends  and  food. 
He  made  large  cavities  in  Jim's  great  pot  of  potato 

48 


The  Range 


stew,  and  caused  biscuits  to  vanish  in  a  way  that 
would  not  have  shamed  a  Hindoo  magician.  The 
grand  canon  he  dug  in  my  jar  of  jam,  however,  could 
not  have  been  accomplished  by  legerdemain. 

Talk  became  animated  on  dogs,  cougars,  horses 
and  buffalo.  Jones  told  of  our  experience  out  on 
the  range,  and  concluded  with  some  salient  remarks. 

"  A  tame  wild  animal  is  the  most  dangerous  of 
beasts.  My  old  friend,  Dick  Rock,  a  great  hunter  and 
guide  out  of  Idaho,  laughed  at  my  advice,  and  got 
killed  by  one  of  his  three-year-old  bulls.  I  told  him 
they  knew  him  just  well  enough  to  kill  him,  and 
they  did.  My  friend,  A.  H.  Cole,  of  Oxford, 
Nebraska,  tried  to  rope  a  Weetah  that  was  too  tame 
to  be  safe,  and  the  bull  killed  him.  Same  with 
General  Bull,  a  member  of  the  Kansas  Legislature, 
and  two  cowboys  who  went  into  a  corral  to  tie  up  a 
tame  elk  at  the  wrong  time.  I  pleaded  with  them 
not  to  undertake  it.  They  had  not  studied  animals 
as  I  had.  That  tame  elk  killed  all  of  them.  He 
had  to  be  shot  in  order  to  get  General  Bull  off  his 
great  antlers.  You  see,  a  wild  animal  must  learn  to 
respect  a  man.  The  way  I  used  to  teach  the  Yellow 
stone  Park  bears  to  be  respectful  and  safe  neighbors 
was  to  rope  them  around  the  front  paw,  swing  them 
up  on  a  tree  clear  of  the  ground,  and  whip  them 
with  a  long  pole.  It  was  a  dangerous  business,  and 

49 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


looks  cruel,  but  it  is  the  only  way  I  could  find  to  make 
the  bears  good.  You  see,  they  eat  scraps  around  the 
hotels  and  get  so  tame  they  will  steal  everything  but 
red-hot  stoves,  and  will  cuff  the  life  out  of  those  who 
try  to  shoo  them  off.  But  after  a  bear  mother  has 
had  a  licking,  she  not  only  becomes  a  good  bear  for 
the  rest  of  her  life,  but  she  tells  all  her  cubs  about 
it  with  a  good  smack  of  her  paw,  for  emphasis,  and 
teaches  them  to  respect  peaceable  citizens  genera 
tion  after  generation. 

"  One  of  the  hardest  jobs  I  ever  tackled  was  that 
of  supplying  the  buffalo  for  Bronx  Park.  I  rounded  up 
a  magnificent  *  king  '  buffalo  bull,  belligerent  enough 
to  fight  a  battleship.  When  I  rode  after  him  the 
cowmen  said  I  was  as  good  as  killed.  I  made  a  lance 
by  driving  a  nail  into  the  end  of  a  short  pole  and 
sharpening  it.  After  he  had  chased  me,  I  wheeled 
my  broncho,  and  hurled  the  lance  into  his  back,  rip 
ping  a  wound  as  long  as  my  hand.  That  put  the 
fear  of  Providence  into  him  and  took  the  fight  all 
out  of  him.  I  drove  him  uphill  and  down,  and  across 
canons  at  a  dead  run  for  eight  miles  single-handed, 
and  loaded  him  on  a  freight  car;  but  he  came  near 
getting  me  once  or  twice,  and  only  quick  broncho 
work  and  lance  play  saved  me. 

"  In  the  Yellowstone  Park  all  our  buffaloes  have 
become  docile,  excepting  the  huge  bull  which  led 

50 


The  Range 


them.  The  Indians  call  the  buffalo  leader  the  '  Wee- 
tah,'  the  master  of  the  herd.  It  was  sure  death  to 
go  near  this  one.  So  I  shipped  in  another  Weetah, 
hoping  that  he  might  whip  some  of  the  fight  out  of 
old  Manitou,  the  Mighty.  They  came  together  head 
on,  like  a  railway  collision,  and  ripped  up  over  a 
square  mile  of  landscape,  fighting  till  night  came  on, 
and  then  on  into  the  night. 

u  I  jumped  into  the  field  with  them,  chasing  them 
with  my  biograph,  getting  a  series  of  moving  pictures 
of  that  bullfight  which  was  sure  the  real  thing.  It 
was  a  ticklish  thing  to  do,  though  knowing  that 
neither  bull  dared  take  his  eyes  off  his  adversary  for 
a  second,  I  felt  reasonably  safe.  The  old  Weetah 
beat  the  new  champion  out  that  night,  but  the  next 
morning  they  were  at  it  again,  and  the  new  buffalo 
finally  whipped  the  old  one  into  submission.  Since 
then  his  spirit  has  remained  broken,  and  even  a  child 
can  approach  him  safely — but  the  new  Weetah  is  in 
turn  a  holy  terror. 

"'  To  handle  buffalo,  elk  and  bear,  you  must  get 
into  sympathy  with  their  methods  of  reasoning.  No 
tenderfoot  stands  any  show,  even  with  the  tame 
animals  of  the  Yellowstone." 

The  old  buffalo  hunter's  lips  were  no  longer 
locked.  One  after  another  he  told  reminiscences  of 
his  eventful  life,  in  a  simple  manner;  yet  so  vivid  and 

51 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


gripping  were  the  unvarnished  details  that  I  was 
spellbound. 

"  Considering  what  appears  the  impossibility  of 
capturing  a  full-grown  buffalo,  how  did  you  earn 
the  name  of  preserver  of  the  American  bisop?" 
inquired  Wallace. 

"  It  took  years  to  learn  how,  and  ten  more  to  cap 
ture  the  fifty-eight  that  I  was  able  to  keep.  I  tried 
every  plan  under  the  sun.  I  roped  hundreds,  of  all 
sizes  and  ages.  They  would  not  live  in  captivity. 
If  they  could  not  find  an  embankment  over  which 
to  break  their  necks,  they  would  crush  their  skulls 
on  stones.  Failing  any  means  like  that,  they  would 
lie  down,  will  themselves  to  die,  and  die.  Think  of 
a  savage  wild  nature  that  could  will  its  heart  to 
cease  beating!  But  it's  true.  Finally  I  found  I 
could  keep  only  calves  under  three  months  of  age. 
But  to  capture  them  so  young  entailed  time  and 
patience.  For  the  buffalo  fight  for  their  young,  and 
when  I  say  fight,  I  mean  till  they  drop.  I  almost 
always  had  to  go  alone,  because  I  could  neither  coax 
nor  hire  any  one  to  undertake  it  with  me.  Some 
times  I  would  be  weeks  getting  one  calf.  One  day  I 
captured  eight — eight  little  buffalo  calves!  Never 
will  I  forget  that  day  as  long  as  I  live !  " 

"  Tell  us  about  it,"  I  suggested,  in  a  matter  of  fact, 
round-the-campfire  voice.  Had  the  silent  plainsman 

52 


The  Range 


ever  told  a  complete  and  full  story  of  his  adventures  ? 
I  doubted  it.  He  was  not  the  man  to  eulogize  him 
self. 

A  short  silence  ensued.  The  cabin  was  snug  and 
warm;  the  ruddy  embers  glowed;  one  of  Jim's  pots 
steamed  musically  and  fragrantly.  The  hounds  lay 
curled  in  the  cozy  chimney  corner. 

Jones  began  to  talk  again,  simply  and  unaffectedly, 
of  his  famous  exploit;  and  as  he  went  on  so  modestly, 
passing  lightly  over  features  we  recognized  as  won 
derful,  I  allowed  the  fire  of  my  imagination  to  fuse 
for  myself  all  the  toil,  patience,  endurance,  skill, 
herculean  strength  and  marvelous  courage  and 
unfathomable  passion  which  he  slighted  in  his  narra 
tive. 


53 


CHAPTER    III 

THE   LAST   HERD 

OVER  gray  No-Man's-Land  stole  down  the 
shadows  of  night.  The  undulating  prairie 
shaded  dark  to  the  western  horizon,  rimmed 
with  a  fading  streak  of  light.  Tall  figures,  silhou 
etted  sharply  against  the  last  golden  glow  of  sunset, 
marked  the  rounded  crest  of  a  grassy  knoll. 

u  Wild  hunter!"  cried  a  voice  in  sullen  rage, 
"  buffalo  or  no,  we  halt  here.  Did  Adams  and  I 
hire  to  cross  the  Staked  Plains?  Two  weeks  in  No- 
Man's-Land,  and  now  we're  facing  the  sand !  We've 
one  keg  of  water,  yet  you  want  to  keep  on.  Why, 
man,  you're  crazy!  You  didn't  tell  us  you  wanted 
buffalo  alive.  And  here  you've  got  us  looking  death 
in  the  eye !  " 

In  the  grim  silence  that  ensued  the  two  men 
unhitched  the  team  from  the  long,  light  wagon,  while 
the  buffalo  hunter  staked  out  his  wiry,  lithe-limbed 
racehorses.  Soon  a  fluttering  blaze  threw  a  circle 
of  light,  which  shone  on  the  agitated  face  of  Rude 
and  Adams,  and  the  cold,  iron-set  visage  of  their 
brawny  leader. 

"  It's  this  way,"  began  Jones,  in  slow,  cool  voice; 

54 


The  Last  Herd 


"  I  engaged  you  fellows,  and  you  promised  to  stick 
by  me.  We've  had  no  luck.  But  I've  finally  found 
sign — old  sign,  I'll  admit — of  the  buffalo  I'm  look 
ing  for — the  last  herd  on  the  plains.  For  two  years 
I've  been  hunting  this  herd.  So  have  other  hunters. 
Millions  of  buffalo  have  been  killed  and  left  to  rot. 
Soon  this  herd  will  be  gone,  and  then  the  only 
buffalo  in  the  world  will  be  those  I  have  given  ten 
years  of  the  hardest  work  in  capturing.  This  is  the 
last  herd,  I  say,  and  my  last  chance  to  capture  a  calf 
or  two.  Do  you  imagine  I'd  quit?  You  fellows  go 
back  if  you  want,  but  I  keep  on." 

"  We  can't  go  back.  We're  lost.  We'll  have 
to  go  with  you.  But,  man,  thirst  is  not  the  only  risk 
we  run.  This  is  Comanche  country.  And  if  that 
herd  is  in  here  the  Indians  have  it  spotted." 

"  That  worries  me  some,"  replied  the  plainsman, 
"  but  we'll  keep  on." 

They  slept.  The  night  wind  swished  the  grasses; 
dark  storm  clouds  blotted  out  the  northern  stars ;  the 
prairie  wolves  mourned  dismally. 

Day  broke  cold,  wan,  threatening,  under  a  leaden 
sky.  The  hunters  traveled  thirty  miles  by  noon,  and 
halted  in  a  hollow  where  a  stream  flowed  in  wet 
season.  Cottonwood  trees  were  bursting  into  green ; 
fLickets  of  prickly  thorn,  dense  and  matted,  showed 
bright  spring  buds. 

55 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  What  is  it?  "  suddenly  whispered  Rude. 

The  plainsman  lay  in  strained  posture,  his  ear 
against  the  ground. 

"  Hide  the  wagon  and  horses  in  the  clump  of  cot- 
tonwoods,"  he  ordered,  tersely.  Springing  to  his 
feet,  he  ran  to  the  top  of  the  knoll  above  the  hollow, 
where  he  again  placed  his  ear  to  the  ground. 

Jones's  practiced  ear  had  detected  the  quavering 
rumble  of  far-away,  thundering  hoofs.  He  searched 
the  wide  waste  of  plain  with  his  powerful  glass.  To 
the  southwest,  miles  distant,  a  cloud  of  dust  mush 
roomed  skyward.  "  Not  buffalo,"  he  muttered, 
"  maybe  wild  horses."  He  watched  and  waited. 
The  yellow  cloud  rolled  forward,  enlarging,  spread 
ing  out,  and  drove  before  it  a  darkly  indistinct,  mov 
ing  mass.  As  soon  as  he  had  one  good  look  at  this 
he  ran  back  to  his  comrades. 

"Stampede!  Wild  horses!  Indians!  Look  to 
your  rifles  and  hide !  " 

Wordless  and  pale,  the  men  examined  their  Sharps, 
and  made  ready  to  follow  Jones.  He  slipped  into 
the  thorny  brake  and,  flat  on  his  stomach,  v/ormed 
his  way  like  a  snake  far  into  the  thickly  interlaced 
web  of  branches.  Rude  and  Adams  crawled  after 
him.  Words  were  superfluous.  Quiet,  breathless, 
with  beating  hearts,  the  hunters  pressed  close  to  the 

dry  grass.    A  long,  low,  steady  rumble  filled  the  air, 

56 


The  Last  Herd 


and  increased  in  volume  till  it  became  a  roar, 
ents,  endless  moments,  passed.  The  roar  filled 
ke  a  flood  slowly  released  from  its  confines  to 
down  with  the  sound  of  doom.  The  ground 
began  to  tremble  and  quake;  the  light  faded;  the 
smell  of  dust  pervaded  the  thicket,  then  a  continuous 
streaming  roar,  deafening  as  persistent  roll  of  thun 
der,  pervaded  the  hiding  place.  The  stampeding 
horses  had  split  round  the  hollow.  The  roar  less 
ened.  Swiftly  as  a  departing  snow-squall  rushing  on 
through  the  pines,  the  thunderous  thud  and  tramp 
of  hoofs  died  away. 

The  trained  horses  hidden  in  the  cottonwoods 
never  stirred.  "  Lie  low!  lie  low!"  breathed  the 
plainsman  to  his  companions. 

Throb  of  hoofs  again  became  audible,  not  loud 
and  madly  pounding  as  those  that  had  passed,  but 
low,  muffled,  rhythmic.  Jones's  sharp  eye,  through 
a  peephole  in  the  thicket,  saw  a  cream-colored  mus 
tang  bob  over  the  knoll,  carrying  an  Indian.  Another 
and  another,  then  a  swiftly  following,  close-packed 
throng  appeared.  Bright  red  feathers  and  white 
gleamed;  weapons  glinted;  gaunt,  bronzed  savages 
leaned  forward  on  racy,  slender  mustangs. 

The  plainsman  shrank  closer  to  the  ground. 
"  Apache !  "  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  and  gripped 
his  rifle.  The  band  galloped  down  to  the  hollow,  and 

57 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


slowing  up,  piled  single  file  over  the  bank.  The 
leader,  a  short,  squat  chief,  plunged  into  the  brake 
not  twenty  yards  from  the  hidden  men.  Jones  recog 
nized  the  cream  mustang;  he  knew  the  somber,  sinis 
ter,  broad  face.  It  belonged  to  the  Red  Chief  of 
the  Apaches. 

"  Geronimo !  "  murmured  the  plainsman  through 
his  teeth. 

Well  for  the  Apache  that  no  falcon  savage  eye 
discovered  aught  strange  in  the  little  hollow !  One 
look  at  the  sand  of  the  stream  bed  would  have  cost 
him  his  life.  But  the  Indians  crossed  the  thicket  too 
far  up;  they  cantered  up  the  slope  and  disappeared. 
The  hoof-beats  softened  and  ceased. 

"Gone?"  whispered  Rude. 

"  Gone.  But  wait,"  whispered  Jones.  He  knew 
the  savage  nature,  and  he  knew  how  to  wait.  After 
a  long  time,  he  cautiously  crawled  out  of  the  thicket 
and  searched  the  surroundings  with  a  plainsman's 
eye.  He  climbed  the  slope  and  saw  the  clouds  of 
dust,  the  near  one  small,  the  far  one  large,  which 
told  him  all  he  needed  to  know. 

"  Comanches?  "  queried  Adams,  with  a  quaver  in 
his  voice.  He  was  new  to  the  plains. 

"  Likely,"  said  Jones,  who  thought  it  best  not  to 
tell  all  he  knew.  Then  he  added  to  himself:  "  We've 
no  time  to  lose.  There's  water  back  here  somewhere. 

58 


The  Last  Herd 


The  Indians  have  spotted  the  buffalo,  and  were  run 
ning  the  horses  away  from  the  water." 

The  three  got  under  way  again,  proceeding  care 
fully,  so  as  not  to  raise  the  dust,  and  headed  due 
southwest.  Scantier  and  scantier  grew  the  grass;  the 
hollows  were  washes  of  sand ;  steely  gray  dunes,  like 
long,  flat,  ocean  swells,  ribbed  the  prairie.  The 
gray  day  declined.  Late  into  the  purple  night  they 
traveled,  then  camped  without  fire. 

In  the  gray  morning  Jones  climbed  a  high  ride 
and  scanned  the  southwest.  Low  dun-colored  sand 
hills  waved  from  him  down  and  down,  in  slow,  decep 
tive  descent.  A  solitary  and  remote  waste  reached 
out  into  gray  infinitude.  A  pale  lake,  gray  as  the 
rest  of  that  gray  expanse,  glimmered  in  the  distance. 

"  Mirage !  "  he  muttered,  focusing  his  glass,  which 
only  magnified  all  under  the  dead  gray,  steely  sky. 
"Water  must  be  somewhere;  but  can  that  be  it? 
It's  too  pale  and  elusive  to  be  real.  No  life — 
a  blasted,  staked  plain!  Hello!  " 

A  thin,  black,  wavering  line  of  wild  fowl,  moving 
in  beautiful,  rapid  flight,  crossed  the  line  of  his 
vision.  "  Geese  flying  north,  and  low.  There's 
water  here,"  he  said.  He  followed  the  flock  with  his 
glass,  saw  them  circle  over  the  lake,  and  vanish  in  the 
gray  sheen. 

"  It's  water."     He  hurried  back  to  camp.     His 

59 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


haggard  and  worn  companions  scorned  his  discovery. 
Adams  siding  with  Rude,  who  knew  the  plains,  said : 
"  Mirage!  the  lure  of  the  desert!  "  Yet  dominated 
by  a  force  too  powerful  for  them  to  resist,  they  fol 
lowed  the  buffalo-hunter.  All  day  the  gleaming  lake 
beckoned  them  onward,  and  seemed  to  recede.  All 
day  the  drab  clouds  scudded  before  the  cold  north 
wind.  In  the  gray  twilight,  the  lake  suddenly  lay 
before  them,  as  if  it  had  opened  at  their  feet.  The 
men  rejoiced,  the  horses  lifted  their  noses  and  sniffed 
the  damp  air. 

The  whinnies  of  the  horses,  the  clank  of  harness, 
and  splash  of  water,  the  whirr  of  ducks  did  not  blur 
out  of  Jones's  keen  ear  a  sound  that  made  him  jump. 
It  was  the  thump  of  hoofs,  in  a  familiar  beat,,  beat, 
beat.  He  saw  a  shadow  moving  up  a  ridge.  Soon, 
outlined  black  against  the  yet  light  sky,  a  lone  buffalo 
cow  stood  like  a  statue.  A  moment  she  held  toward 
the  lake,  studying  the  danger,  then  went  out  of  sight 
over  the  ridge. 

Jones  spurred  his  horse  up  the  ascent,  which  was 
rather  long  and  steep,  but  he  mounted  the  summit  in 
time  to  see  the  cow  join  eight  huge,  shaggy  buffalo. 
The  hunter  reined  in  his  horse,  and  standing  high  in 
his  stirrups,  held  his  hat  at  arms'  length  over  his 
head.  So  he  thrilled  to  a  moment  he  had  sought  for 
two  years.  The  last  herd  of  American  bison  was 

60 


The  Last  Herd 


near  at  hand.  The  cow  would  not  venture  far  from 
the  main  herd;  the  eight  stragglers  were  the  old 
broken-down  bulls  that  had  been  expelled,  at  this 
season,  from  the  herd  by  younger  and  more  vigorous 
bulls.  The  old  monarchs  saw  the  hunter  at  the  same 
time  his  eyes  were  gladdened  by  sight  of  them,  and 
lumbered  away  after  the  cow,  to  disappear  in  the 
gathering  darkness.  Frightened  buffalo  always  make 
straight  for  their  fellows;  and  this  knowledge  con 
tented  Jones  to  return  to  the  lake,  well  satisfied  that 
the  herd  would  not  be  far  away  in  the  morning, 
within  easy  striking  distance  by  daylight. 

At  dark  the  storm  which  had  threatened  for  days, 
broke  in  a  fury  of  rain,  sleet  and  hail.  The  hunters 
stretched  a  piece  of  canvas  over  the  wheels  of  the 
north  side  of  the  wagon,  and  wet  and  shivering, 
crawled  under  it  to  their  blankets.  During  the  night 
the  storm  raged  with  unabated  strength. 

Dawn,  forbidding  and  raw,  lightened  to  the  whis 
tle  of  the  sleety  gusts.  Fire  was  out  of  the  question. 
Chary  of  weight,  the  hunters  had  carried  no  wood, 
and  the  buffalo  chips  they  used  for  fuel  were  lumps 
of  ice.  Grumbling,  Adams  and  Rude  ate  a  cold 
breakfast,  while  Jones,  munching  a  biscuit,  faced  the 
biting  blast  from  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  The  middle 
of  the  plain  below  held  a  ragged,  circular  mass,  as 
still  as  stone.  It  was  the  buffalo  herd,  with  every 

61 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


shaggy  head  to  the  storm.  So  they  would  stand, 
never  budging  from  their  tracks,  till  the  blizzard 
of  sleet  was  over. 

Jones,  though  eager  and  impatient,  restrained  him 
self,  for  it  was  unwise  to  begin  operations  in  the 
storm.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  Ill  fared 
the  hunters  that  day.  Food  had  to  be  eaten  uncooked. 
The  long  hours  dragged  by  with  the  little  group 
huddled  under  icy  blankets.  When  darkness  fell, 
the  sleet  changed  to  drizzling  rain.  This  blew  over 
at  midnight,  and  a  colder  wind,  penetrating  to  the 
very  marrow  of  the  sleepless  men,  made  their  condi 
tion  worse.  In  the  after  part  of  the  night,  the  wolves 
howled  mournfully. 

With  a  gray,  misty  light  appearing  in  the  east, 
Jones  threw  off  his  stiff,  ice-incased  blanket,  and 
crawled  out.  A  gaunt  gray  wolf,  the  color  of  the 
day  and  the  sand  and  the  lake,  sneaked  away,  looking 
back.  While  moving  and  threshing  about  to  warm 
his  frozen  blood,  Jones  munched  another  biscuit. 
His  men  crawled  from  under  the  wagon,  and  made 
an  unfruitful  search  for  the  whisky.  Fearing  it, 
Jones  had  thrown  the  bottle  away.  The  men  cursed. 
The  patient  horses  drooped  sadly,  and  shivered  in  the 
lee  of  the  improvised  tent.  Jones  kicked  the  inch- 
thick  casing  of  ice  from  his  saddle.  Kentuck,  his 
racer,  had  been  spared  on  the  whole  trip  for  this 

62 


The  Last  Herd 


day's  work.  The  thoroughbred  was  cold,  but  as 
Jones  threw  the  saddle  over  him,  he  showed  that 
he  knew  the  chase  ahead,  and  was  eager  to  be  off. 
At  last,  after  repeated  efforts  with  his  benumbed 
fingers,  Jones  got  the  girths  tight.  He  tied  a  bunch 
of  soft  cords  to  the  saddle  and  mounted. 

"  Follow  as  fast  as  you  can,"  he  called  to  his 
surly  men.  "  The  buffs  will  run  north  against  the 
wind.  This  is  the  right  direction  for  us;  we'll  soon 
leave  the  sand.  Stick  to  my  trail  and  come  a-hum- 
ming." 

From  the  ridge  he  met  the  red  sun,  rising  bright, 
and  a  keen  northeasterly  wind  that  lashed  like  a  whip. 
As  he  had  anticipated,  his  quarry  had  moved  north 
ward.  Kentuck  let  out  into  a  swinging  stride,  which 
in  an  hour  had  the  loping  herd  in  sight.  Every  jump 
now  took  him  upon  higher  ground,  where  the  sand 
failed,  and  the  grass  grew  thicker  and  began  to 
bend  under  the  wind. 

In  the  teeth  of  the  nipping  gale  Jones  slipped  close 
upon  the  herd  without  alarming  even  a  cow.  More 
than  a  hundred  little  reddish-black  calves  leisurely 
loped  in  the  rear.  Kentuck,  keen  to  his  work,  crept 
on  like  a  wolf,  and  the  hunter's  great  fist  clenched 
the  coiled  lasso.  Before  him  expanded  a  boundless 
plain.  A  situation  long  cherished  and  dreamed  of 
had  become  a  reality.  Kentuck,  fresh  and  strong, 

63 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


was  good  for  all  day.  Jones  gloated  over  the  little 
red  bulls  and  heifers,  as  a  miser  gloats  over  gold 
and  jewels.  Never  before  had  he  caught  more  than 
two  in  one  day,  and  often  it  had  taken  days  to  cap 
ture  one.  This  was  the  last  herd,  this  the  last  oppor 
tunity  toward  perpetuating  a  grand  race  of  beasts. 
And  with  born  instinct  he  saw  ahead  the  day  of  his 
life. 

At  a  touch,  Kentuck  closed  in,  and  the  buffalo, 
seeing  him,  stampeded  into  the  heaving  roll  so  well 
known  to  the  hunter.  Racing  on  the  right  flank  of 
the  herd,  Jones  selected  a  tawny  heifer  and  shot 
the  lariat  after  her.  It  fell  true,  but  being  stiff  and 
kinky  from  the  sleet,  failed  to  tighten,  and  the  quick 
calf  leaped  through  the  loop  to  freedom. 

Undismayed  the  pursuer  quickly  recovered  his 
rope.  Again  he  whirled  and  sent  the  loop.  Again 
it  circled  true,  and  failed  to  close;  again  the  agile 
heifer  bounded  through  it.  Jones  whipped  the  air 
with  the  stubborn  rope.  To  lose  a  chance  like  that 
was  worse  than  boy's  work. 

The  third  whirl,  running  a  smaller  loop,  tightened 
the  coil  round  the  frightened  calf  just  back  of  its  ears. 
A  pull  on  the  bridle  brought  Kentuck  to  a  halt  in 
his  tracks,  and  the  baby  buffalo  rolled  over  and  over 
in  the  grass.  Jones  bounced  from  his  seat  and 
jerked  loose  a  couple  of  the  soft  cords.  In  a  twinkling 

64 


The  Last  Herd 


his  big  knee  crushed  down  on  the  calf,  and  his  big 
hands  bound  it  helpless. 

Kentuck  neighed.  Jones  saw  his  black  ears  go 
>.',.•  Danger  threatened.  For  a  moment  the  hunter's 
blood  turned  chill,  not  from  fear,  for  he  never  felt 
fear,  but  because  he  thought  the  Indians  were  return 
ing  to  ruin  his  work.  His  eye  swept  the  plain.  Only 
the  gray  forms  of  wolves  flitted  through  the  grass, 
here,  there,  all  about  him.  Wolves!  They  were 
as  fatal  to  his  enterprise  as  savages.  A  trooping  pack 
of  prairie  wolves  had  fallen  in  with  the  herd  and 
hung  close  on  the  trail,  trying  to  cut  a  calf  away  from 
its  mother.  The  gray  brutes  boldly  trotted  to  within  a 
few  yards  of  him,  and  slyly  looked  at  him,  with  pale, 
fiery  eyes.  They  had  already  scented  his  captive. 
Precious  time  flew  by;  the  situation,  critical  and 
baffling,  had  never  before  been  met  by  him.  There 
lay  his  little  calf  tied  fast,  and  to  the  north  ran  many 
others,  some  of  which  he  must — he  would  have.  To 
think  quickly  had  meant  the  solving  of  many  a  plains 
man's  problem.  Should  he  stay  with  his  prize  to 
save  it,  or  leave  it  to  be  devoured? 

"Ha!  you  old  gray  devils!"  he  yelled,  shaking 
his  fist  at  the  wolves.  "  I  know  a  trick  or  two." 
Slipping  his  hat  between  the  legs  of  the  calf,  he  fast 
ened  it  securely.  This  done,  he  vaulted  on  Kentuck, 
and  was  off  with  never  a  backward  glance.  Certain 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


it  was  that  the  wolves  would  not  touch  anything, 
alive  or  dead,  that  bore  the  scent  of  a  human  being. 

The  bison  scoured  away  a  long  half-mile  in  the 
lead,  sailing  northward  like  a  cloud-shadow  over  the 
plain.  Kentuck,  mettlesome,  over-eager,  would  have 
run  himself  out  in  short  order,  but  the  wary  hunter, 
strong  to  restrain  as  well  as  impel,  with  the  long 
day  in  his  mind,  kept  the  steed  in  his  easy  stride, 
which,  springy  and  stretching,  overhauled  the  herd 
in  the  course  of  several  miles. 

A  dash,  a  whirl,  a  shock,  a  leap,  horse  and  hunter 
working  in  perfect  accord,  and  a  fine  big  calf,  bellow 
ing  lustily,  struggled  desperately  for  freedom  under 
the  remorseless  knee.  The  big  hands  toyed  with 
him;  and  then,  secure  in  the  double  knots,  the  calf  lay 
still,  sticking  out  his  tongue  and  rolling  his  eyes, 
with  the  coat  of  the  hunter  tucked  under  his  bonds  to 
keep  away  the  wolves. 

The  race  had  but  begun;  the  horse  had  but 
warmed  to  his  work;  the  hunter  had  but  tasted  of 
sweet  triumph.  Another  hopeful  of  a  buffalo  mother, 
negligent  in  danger,  truant  from  his  brothers,  stum 
bled  and  fell  in  the  enmeshing  loop.  The  hunter's 
vest,  slipped  over  the  calf's  neck,  served  as  danger 
signal  to  the  wolves.  Before  the  lumbering  buffalo 
missed  their  loss,  another  red  and  black  baby  kicked 
helplessly  on  the  grass  and  sent  up  vain,  weak  calls, 

66 


The  Last  Herd 


and  at  last  lay  still,  with  the  hunter's  boot  tied  to  his 
cords. 

Four !  Jones  counted  them  aloud,  and  in  his  mind, 
and  kept  on !  Fast,  hard  work,  covering  upward  of 
fifteen  miles,  had  begun  to  tell  on  herd,  horse  and 
man,  and  all  slowed  down  to  the  call  for  strength. 
The  fifth  time  Jones  closed  in  on  his  game,  he  encoun 
tered  different  circumstances  such  as  called  forth  his 
cunning. 

The  herd  had  opened  up ;  the  mothers  had  fallen 
back  to  the  rear;  the  calves  hung  almost  out  of  sight 
under  the  shaggy  sides  of  protectors.  To  try  them 
out  Jones  darted  close  and  threw  his  lasso.  It  struck 
a  cow.  With  activity  incredible  in  such  a  huge  beast, 
she  lunged  at  him.  Kentuck,  expecting  just  such  a 
move,  wheeled  to  safety.  This  duel,  ineffectual  on 
both  sides,  kept  up  for  a  while,  and  all  the  time, 
man  and  herd  were  jogging  rapidly  to  the  north. 

Jones  could  not  let  well  enough  alone ;  he  acknowl 
edged  this  even  as  he  swore  he  must  have  five. 
Emboldened  by  his  marvelous  luck,  and  yielding 
headlong  to  the  passion  within,  he  threw  caution  to 
the  winds.  A  lame  old  cow  with  a  red  calf  caught 
his  eye;  in  he  spurred  his  willing  horse  and  slung 
his  rope.  It  stung  the  haunch  of  the  mother.  The 
mad  grunt  she  vented  was  no  quicker  than  the  velocity 
with  which  she  plunged  and  reared.  Jones  had  but 

67 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


time  to  swing  his  leg  over  the  saddle  when  the  hoofs 
beat  down.  Kentuck  rolled  on  the  plain,  flinging  his 
rider  from  him.  The  infuriated  buffalo  lowered  her 
head  for  the  fatal  charge  on  the  horse,  when  the 
plainsman,  jerking  out  his  heavy  Colts,  shot  her  dead 
in  her  tracks. 

Kentuck  got  to  his  feet  unhurt,  and  stood  his 
ground,  quivering  but  ready,  showing  his  steadfast 
courage.  He  showed  more,  for  his  ears  lay  back, 
and  his  eyes  had  the  gleam  of  the  animal  that  strikes 
back. 

The  calf  ran  round  its  mother.  Jones  lassoed  it, 
and  tied  it  down,  being  compelled  to  cut  a  piece  from 
his  lasso,  as  the  cords  on  the  saddle  had  given  out. 
He  left  his  other  boot  with  baby  number  five.  The 
still  heaving,  smoking  body  of  the  victim  called  forth 
the  stern,  intrepid  hunter's  pity  for  a  moment.  Spill 
of  blood  he  had  not  wanted.  But  he  had  not  been 
able  to  avoid  it;  and  mounting  again  with  close-shut 
jaw  and  smoldering  eye,  he  galloped  to  the  north. 

Kentuck  snorted;  the  pursuing  wolves  shied  off  in 
the  grass ;  the  pale  sun  began  to  slant  westward.  The 
cold  iron  stirrups  froze  and  cut  the  hunter's  bootless 
feet. 

When  once  more  he  came  hounding  the  buffalo, 
they  were  considerably  winded.  Short-tufted  tails, 
raised  stiffly,  gave  warning.  Snorts,  like  puffs  of 

68 


The  Last  Herd 


escaping  steam,  and  deep  grunts  from  cavernous 
chests  evinced  anger  and  impatience  that  might,  at 
any  moment,  bring  the  herd  to  a  defiant  stand. 

He  whizzed  the  shortened  noose  over  the  head  of 
a  calf  that  was  laboring  painfully  to  keep  up,  and 
had  slipped  down,  when  a  mighty  grunt  told  him  of 
peril.  Never  looking  to  see  whence  it  came,  he 
sprang  into  the  saddle.  Fiery  Kentuck  jumped  into 
action,  then  hauled  up  with  a  shock  that  almost 
threw  himself  and  rider.  The  lasso,  fast  to  the 
horse,  and  its  loop  end  round  the  calf,  had  caused  the 
sudden  check. 

A  maddened  cow  bore  down  on  Kentuck.  The 
gallant  horse  straightened  in  a  jump,  but  dragging 
the  calf  pulled  him  in  a  circle,  and  in  another  moment 
he  was  running  round  and  round  the  howling,  kicking 
pivot.  Then  ensued  a  terrible  race,  with  horse  and 
bison  describing  a  twenty-foot  circle.  Bang !  Bang ! 
The  hunter  fired  two  shots,  and  heard  the  spats  of 
the  bullets.  But  they  only  augmented  the  frenzy  of 
the  beast.  Faster  Kentuck  flew,  snorting  in  terror; 
closer  drew  the  dusty,  bouncing  pursuer;  the  calf 
spun  like  a  top;  the  lasso  strung  tighter  than  wire. 
Jones  strained  to  loosen  the  fastening,  but  in  vain. 
He  swore  at  his  carelessness  in  dropping  his  knife 
by  the  last  calf  he  had  tied.  He  thought  of  shooting 
the  rope,  yet  dared  not  risk  the  shot.  A  hollow 

69 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


sound  turned  him  again,  with  the  Colts  leveled. 
Bang !  Dust  flew  from  the  ground  beyond  the  bison. 

The  two  charges  left  in  the  gun  were  all  that 
stood  between  him  and  eternity.  With  a  desperate 
display  of  strength  Jones  threw  his  weight  in  a  back 
ward  pull,  and  hauled  Kentuck  up.  Then  he  leaned 
far  back  in  the  saddle,  and  shoved  the  Colts  out 
beyond  the  horse's  flank.  Down  went  the  broad 
head,  with  its  black,  glistening  horns.  Bang!  She 
slid  forward  with  a  crash,  plowing  the  ground  with 
hoofs  and  nose — spouted  blood,  uttered  a  hoarse  cry, 
kicked  and  died. 

Kentuck,  for  once  completely  terrorized,  reared 
and  plunged  from  the  cow,  dragging  the  calf.  Stern 
command  and  iron  arm  forced  him  to  a  standstill. 
The  calf,  nearly  strangled,  recovered  when  the  noose 
was  slipped,  and  moaned  a  feeble  protest  against  life 
and  captivity.  The  remainder  of  Jones's  lasso  went 
to  bind  number  six,  and  one  of  his  socks  went  to 
serve  as  reminder  to  the  persistent  wolves. 

"Six!  On!  On!  Kentuck!  On!"  Weaken 
ing,  but  unconscious  of  it,  with  bloody  hands  and 
feet,  without  lasso,  and  with  only  one  charge  in  his 
revolver,  hatless,  coatless,  vestless,  bootless,  the  wild 
hunter  urged  on  the  noble  horse.  The  herd  had 
gained  miles  in  the  interval  of  the  fight.  Game  to 

the  backbone,   Kentuck  lengthened  out  to  overhaul 

70 


The  Last  Herd 


it,  and  slowly  the  rolling  gap  lessened  and  lessened. 
A  long  hour  thumped  away,  with  the  rumble  growing 
nearer. 

Once  again  the  lagging  calves  dotted  the  grassy 
plain  before  the  hunter.  He  dashed  beside  a  burly 
calf,  grasped  its  tail,  stopped  his  horse,  and  jumped. 
The  calf  went  down  with  him,  and  did  not  come 
up.  The  knotted,  blood-stained  hands,  like  claws 
of  steel,  bound  the  hind  legs  close  and  fast  with  a 
leathern  belt,  and  left  between  them  a  torn  and 
bloody  sock. 

"Seven!  On!  Old  Faithful!  We  must  have 
another!  the  last!  This  is  your  day." 

The  blood  that  flecked  the  hunter  was  not  all  his 
own. 

The  sun  slanted  westwardly  toward  the  purpling 
horizon;  the  grassy  plain  gleamed  like  a  ruffled  sea 
of  glass ;  the  gray  wolves  loped  on. 

When  next  the  hunter  came  within  sight  of  the 
herd,  over  a  wavy  ridge,  changes  in  its  shape  and 
movement  met  his  gaze.  The  calves  were  almost 
done;  they  could  run  no  more;  their  mothers  faced 
the  south,  and  trotted  slowly  to  and  fro;  the  bulls 
were  grunting,  herding,  piling  close.  It  looked  as 
if  the  herd  meant  to  stand  and  fight 

This  mattered  little  to  the  hunter  who  had  captured 
seven  calves  since  dawn.  The  first  limping  calf  he 

71 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


reached  tried  to  elude  the  grasping  hand  and  failed. 
Kentuck  had  been  trained  to  wheel  to  the  right  or 
left,  in  whichever  way  his  rider  leaned;  and  as  Jones 
bent  over  and  caught  an  upraised  tail,  the  horse 
turned  to  strike  the  calf  with  both  front  hoofs.  The 
calf  rolled;  the  horse  plunged  down;  the  rider  sped 
beyond  to  the  dust.  Though  the  calf  was  tired,  he 
still  could  bellow,  and  he  filled  the  air  with  robust 
bawls. 

Jones  all  at  once  saw  twenty  or  more  buffalo  dash 
in  at  him  with  fast,  twinkling,  short  legs.  With  the 
thought  of  it,  he  was  in  the  air  to  the  saddle.  As  the 
black,  round  mounds  charged  from  every  direction, 
Kentuck  let  out  with  all  there  was  left  in  him.  He 
leaped  and  whirled,  pitched  and  swerved,  in  a  roar 
ing,  clashing,  dusty  melee.  Beating  hoofs  threw  the 
turf,  flying  tails  whipped  the  air,  and  everywhere 
were  dusky,  sharp-pointed  heads,  tossing  low.  Ken- 
tuck  squeezed  out  unscathed.  The  mob  of  bison, 
bristling,  turned  to  lumber  after  the  main  herd. 
Jones  seized  his  opportunity  and  rode  after  them, 
yelling  with  all  his  might.  He  drove  them  so  hard 
that  soon  the  little  fellows  lagged  paces  behind.  Only 
one  or  two  old  cows  straggled  with  the  calves. 

Then  wheeling  Kentuck,  he  cut  between  the  herd 
and  a  calf,  and  rode  it  down.  Bewildered,  the 

tously  little  bull  bellowed  in  great   affright.     The 

72 


The  Last  Herd 


hunter  seized  the  stiff  tail,  and  calling  to  his  horse, 
leaped  off.  But  his  strength  was  far  spent,  and  the 
buffalo,  larger  than  his  fellows,  threshed  about  and 
jerked  in  terror.  Jones  threw  it  again  and  again. 
But  it  struggled  up,  never  once  ceasing  its  loud 
demands  for  help.  Finally  the  hunter  tripped  it 
up  and  fell  upon  it  with  his  knees. 

Above  the  rumble  of  retreating  hoofs,  Jones  heard 
the  familiar  short,  quick,  jarring  pound  on  the  turf. 
Kentuck  neighed  his  alarm  and  raced  to  the  right. 
Bearing  down  on  the  hunter,  hurtling  through  the 
air,  was  a  giant  furry  mass,  instinct  with  fierce  life 
and  power — a  buffalo  cow  robbed  of  her  young. 

With  his  senses  almost  numb,  barely  able  to  pull 
and  raise  the  Colt,  the  plainsman  willed  to  live,  and 
to  keep  his  captive.  His  leveled  arm  wavered  like 
a  leaf  in  a  storm. 

Bang!  Fire,  smoke,  a  shock,  a  jarring  crash,  and 
silence ! 

The  calf  stirred  beneath  him.  He  put  out  a  hand 
to  touch  a  warm,  furry  coat.  The  mother  had  fallen 
beside  him.  Lifting  a  heavy  hoof,  he  laid  it  over 
the  neck  of  the  calf  to  serve  as  additional  weight. 
He  lay  still  and  listened.  The  rumble  of  the  herd 
died  away  in  the  distance. 

The  evening  waned.     Still  the  hunter  lay  quiet. 

From  time  to  time  the  calf  struggled  and  bellowed. 

73 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Lank,  gray  wolves  appeared  on  all  sides;  they 
prowled  about  with  hungry  howls,  and  shoved  black- 
tipped  noses  through  the  grass.  The  sun  sank,  and 
the  sky  paled  to  opal  blue.  A  star  shone  out,  then 
another,  and  another.  Over  the  prairie  slanted  the 
first  dark  shadow  of  night. 

Suddenly  the  hunter  laid  his  ear  to  the  ground,  and 
listened.  Faint  beats,  like  throbs  of  a  pulsing  heart, 
shuddered  from  the  soft  turf.  Stronger  they  grew,  till 
the  hunter  raised  his  head.  Dark  forms  approached; 
voices  broke  the  silence;  the  creaking  of  a  wagon 
scared  away  the  wolves. 

"  This  way !  "  shouted  the  hunter  weakly. 

"Ha!  here  he  is.  Hurt?"  cried  Rude,  vaulting 
the  wheel. 

"  Tie  up  this  calf.  How  many — did  you  find?  " 
The  voice  grew  fainter. 

u  Seven — alive,  and  in  good  shape,  and  all  your 
clothes." 

But  the  last  words  fell  on  unconscious  ears. 


74 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  TRAIL 

"  1 — >RANK,  what'll  we  do  about  horses?  "  asked 

|H  Jones.  "  Jim'll  want  the  bay,  and  of  course 
-*-  you'll  want  to  ride  Spot.  The  rest  of  our 
nags  will  only  do  to  pack  the  outfit.1' 

"  I've  been  thinkin',"  replied  the  foreman.  "  You 
sure  will  need  good  mounts.  Now  it  happens  that 
a  friend  of  mine  is  just  at  this  time  at  House  Rock 
Valley,  an  outlyin'  post  of  one  of  the  big  Utah 
ranches.  He  is  gettin'  in  the  horses  off  the  range, 
an'  he  has  some  crackin'  good  ones.  Let's  ooze  over 
there — it's  only  thirty  miles — an'  get  some  horses 
from  him." 

We  were  all  eager  to  act  upon  Frank's  suggestion. 
So  plans  were  made  for  the  three  of  us  to  ride  over 
and  select  our  mounts.  Frank  and  Jim  would  follow 
with  the  pack  train,  and  if  all  went  well,  on  the 
following  evening  we  would  camp  under  the  shadow 
of  Buckskin. 

Early  next  morning  we  were  on  our  way.  I  tried 
to  find  a  soft  place  on  Old  Baldy,  one  of  Frank's 
pack  horses.  He  was  a  horse  that  would  not  have 

75 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


raised  up  at  the  trumpet  of  doom.  Nothing  under 
the  sun,  Frank  said,  bothered  Old  Baldy  but  the 
operation  of  shoeing.  We  made  the  distance  to  the 
outpost  by  noon,  and  found  Frank's  friend  a  genial 
and  obliging  cowboy,  who  said  we  could  have  all 
the  horses  we  wanted. 

While  Jones  and  Wallace  strutted  round  the  big 
corral,  which  was  full  of  vicious,  dusty,  shaggy 
horses  and  mustangs,  I  sat  high  on  the  fence.  I 
heard  them  talking  about  points  and  girth  and  stride, 
and  a  lot  of  terms  that  I  could  not  understand. 
Wallace  selected  a  heavy  sorrel,  and  Jones  a  big  bay, 
very  like  Jim's.  I  had  observed,  way  over  in  the 
corner  of  the  corral,  a  bunch  of  cayuses,  and  among 
them  a  clean-limbed  black  horse.  Edging  round  on 
the  fence  I  got  a  closer  view,  and  then  cried  out 
that  I  had  found  my  horse.  I  jumped  down  and 
caught  him,  much  to  my  surprise,  for  the  other  horses 
were  wild,  and  had  kicked  viciously.  The  black 
was  beautifully  built,  wide-chested  and  powerful, 
but  not  heavy.  His  coat  glistened  like  sheeny  black 
satin,  and  he  had  a  white  face  and  white  feet  and  a 
long  mane. 

"  I  don't  know  about  giving  you  Satan — that's  his 
name,"  said  the  cowboy.  "  The  foreman  rides  him 
often.  He's  the  fastest,  the  best  climber,  and  the 

best  dispositioned  horse  on  the  range. 

76 


The  Trail  ' 


"  But  I  guess  I  can  let  you  have  him,"  he  con 
tinued,  when  he  saw  my  disappointed  face. 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Jones.  "You've  got 
it  on  us  this  time." 

"Would  you  like  to  trade?"  asked  Wallace,  as 
his  sorrel  tried  to  bite  him.  "  That  black  looks  sort 
of  fierce." 

I  led  my  prize  out  of  the  corral,  up  to  the  little 
cabin  nearby,  where  I  tied  him,  and  proceeded  to  get 
acquainted  after  a  fashion  of  my  own.  Though  not 
versed  in  horse-lore,  I  knew  that  half  the  battle  was 
to  win  his  confidence.  I  smoothed  his  silky  coat, 
and  patted  him,  and  then  surreptitiously  slipped  a 
lump  of  sugar  from  my  pocket.  This  sugar,  which 
I  had  purloined  in  Flagstaff,  and  carried  all  the  way 
across  the  desert,  was  somewhat  disreputably  soiled, 
and  Satan  sniffed  at  it  disdainfully.  Evidently  he 
had  never  smelled  or  tasted  sugar.  .-I  pressed  it  into 
his  mouth.  He  munched  it,  and  ihtn  looked  me 
over  with  some  interest.  I  handed  him  another  lump. 
He  took  it  and  rubbed  his  nose  against  me.  Satan 
was  mine  I 

Frank  and  Jim  came  along  early  in  the  afternoon. 
What  with  packing,  changing  saddles  and  shoeing 
the  horses,  we  were  all  busy.  Old  Baldy  would  not 
be  shod,  so  we  let  him  off  till  a  more  opportune  time. 
By  four  o'clock  we  were  riding  toward  the  slopes  of 

77 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Buckskin,  now  only  a  few  miles  away,  standing  up 
higher  and  darker. 

"What's  that  for?"  inquired  Wallace,  pointing 
to  a  long,  rusty,  wire-wrapped,  double-barreled  blun 
derbuss  of  a  shotgun,  stuck  in  the  holster  of  Jones's 
saddle. 

The  Colonel,  who  had  been  having  a  fine  time  with 
the  impatient  and  curious  hounds,  did  not  vouchsafe 
any  information  on  that  score.  But  very  shortly  we 
were  destined  to  learn  the  use  of  this  incongruous 
firearm.  I  was  riding  in  advance  of  Wallace,  and  a 
little  behind  Jones.  The  dogs  —  excepting  Jude,  who 
had  been  kicked  and  lamed  —  were  ranging  along 
before  their  master.  Suddenly,  right  before  me,  I 
saw  an  immense  jack-rabbit;  and  just  then  Moze  and 
Don  caught  sight  of  it.  In  fact,  Moze  bumped  his 
blunt  nose  into  the  rabbit.  When  it  leaped  into 
scared  action,  Moze  yelped,  and  Don  followed  suit. 
Then  they  were  after  it  in  wild,  clamoring  pursuit. 
Jones  let  out  the  stentorian  blast,  now  becoming 
familiar,  and  spurred  after  them.  He  reached  over, 
pulled  the  shotgun  out  of  the  holster  and  fired  both 
barrels  at  the  jumping  dogs. 

I  expressed  my  amazement  in  strong  language,  and 
Wallace  whistled. 

Don  came  sneaking  back  with  his  tail  between  his 
legs,  and  Moze,  who  had  cowered  as  if  stung,  circled 


78 


The  Trail 


round  ahead  of  us.  Jones  finally  succeeded  in  getting 
him  back. 

"  Come  in  hyah !  You  measly  rabbit  dogs !  What 
do  you  mean  chasing  off  that  way?  We're  after 
lions.  Lions !  understand  ?" 

Don  looked  thoroughly  convinced  of  his  error,  but 
Moze,  being  more  thick-headed,  appeared  mystified 
rather  than  hurt  or  frightened. 

"  What  size  shot  do  you  use?  "  I  asked. 

"  Number  ten.  They  don't  hurt  much  at  seventy- 
five  yards,"  replied  our  leader.  "  I  use  them  as  sort 
of  a  long  arm.  You  see,  the  dogs  must  be  made  to 
know  what  we're  after.  Ordinary  means  would  never 
do  in  a  case  like  this.  My  idea  is  to  break  them  off 
coyotes,  wolves  and  deer,  and  when  we  cross  a  lion 
trail,  let  them  go.  I'll  teach  them  sooner  than  you'd 
think.  Only  we  must  get  where  we  can  see  what 
they're  trailing.  Then  I  can  tell  whether  to  call  them 
back  or  not." 

The  sun  was  gilding  the  rim  of  the  desert  ramparts 
when  we  began  the  ascent  of  the  foothills  of  Buck 
skin.  A  steep  trail  wound  zigzag  up  the  mountain. 
We  led  our  horses,  as  it  was  a  long,  hard  climb. 
From  time  to  time,  as  I  stopped  to  catch  my  breath, 
I  gazed  away  across  the  growing  void  to  the  gorgeous 
Pink  Cliffs,  far  above  and  beyond  the  red  wall  which 
had  seemed  so  high,  and  then  out  toward  the  desert. 

79 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


The  irregular  ragged  crack  in  the  plain,  apparently 
only  a  thread  of  broken  ground,  was  the  Grand 
Canon.  How  unutterably  remote,  wild,  grand  was 
that  world  of  red  and  brown,  of  purple  pall,  of  vague 
outline ! 

Two  thousand  feet,  probably,  we  mounted  to  what 
Frank  called  Little  Buckskin.  In  the  west  a  copper 
glow,  ridged  with  lead-colored  clouds,  marked  where 
the  sun  had  set.  The  air  was  very  thin  and  icy  cold. 
At  the  first  clump  of  pinon  pines,  we  made  dry  camp. 
When  I  sat  down  it  was  as  if  I  had  been  anchored. 
Frank  solicitously  remarked  that  I  looked  "  sort  of 
beat."  Jim  built  a  roaring  fire  and  began  getting 
supper.  A  snow  squall  came  on  the  rushing  wind. 
The  air  grew  colder,  and  though  I  hugged  the  fire, 
I  could  not  get  warm.  When  I  had  satisfied  my  hun 
ger,  I  rolled  out  my  sleeping-bag  and  crept  into  it. 
I  stretched  my  aching  limbs  and  did  not  move  again. 
Once  I  awoke,  drowsily  feeling  the  warmth  of  the 
fire,  and  I  heard  Frank  say:  "  He's  asleep,  dead  to 
the  world!" 

"  He's  all  in,"  said  Jones.  "  Riding's  what  did  it. 
You  know  how  a  horse  tears  a  man  to  pieces." 

"  Will  he  be  able  to  stand  it?  "  asked  Frank,  with 
as  much  solicitude  as  if  he  were  my  brother.  "  When 
you  get  out  after  anythin' — well,  you're  hell.  An' 
think  of  the  country  we're  goin'  into.  I  know  you've 

80 


The  Trail 


never  seen  the  breaks  of  the  Siwash,  but  I  have,  an' 
it's  the  worst  an'  roughest  country  I  ever  saw.  Breaks 
after  breaks,  like  the  ridges  on  a  washboard,  headin' 
on  the  south  slope  of  Buckskin,  an'  runnin'  down, 
side  by  side,  miles  an'  miles,  deeper  an'  deeper,  till 
they  run  into  that  awful  hole.  It  will  be  a  killin' 
trip  on  men,  horses  an'  dogs.  Now,  Mr.  Wallace, 
he's  been  campin'  an'  roughin'  with  the  Navajos  for 
months;  he's  in  some  kind  of  shape,  but " 

Frank  concluded  his  remark  with  a  doubtful  pause. 

"  I'm  some  worried,  too,"  replied  Jones.  "  But 
he  would  come.  He  stood  the  desert  well  enough; 
even  the  Mormons  said  that." 

In  the  ensuing  silence  the  fire  sputtered,  the  glare 
fitfully  merged  into  dark  shadows  under  the  weird 
pinons,  and  the  wind  moaned  through  the  short 
branches. 

"  Wai,"  drawled  a  slow,  soft  voice,  "  shore  I 
reckon  you're  hollerin'  too  soon.  Frank's  measly 
trick  puttin'  him  on  Spot  showed  me.  He  rode  out 
on  Spot,  an'  he  rode  in  on  Spot.  Shore  he'll  stay." 

It  was  not  all  the  warmth  of  the  blankets  that 
glowed  over  me  then.  The  voices  died  away 
dreamily,  and  my  eyelids  dropped  sleepily  tight. 
Late  in  the  night  I  sat  up  suddenly,  roused  by  some 
unusual  disturbance.  The  fire  was  dead;  the  wind 
swept  with  a  rush  through  the  pinons.  From  the 

81 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


black  darkness  came  the  staccato  chorus  of  coyotes. 
Don  barked  his  displeasure ;  Sounder  made  the  welkin 
ring,  and  old  Moze  growled  low  and  deep,  grum 
bling  like  muttered  thunder.  Then  all  was  quiet, 
and  I  slept 

Dawn,  rosy  red,  confronted  me  when  I  opened  my 
eyes.  Breakfast  was  ready;  Frank  was  packing  Old 
Baldy;  Jones  talked  to  his  horse  as  he  saddled  him; 
Wallace  came  stooping  his  giant  figure  under  the 
pinons ;  the  dogs,  eager  and  soft-eyed,  sat  around  Jim 
and  begged.  The  sun  peeped  over  the  Pink  Cliffs; 
the  desert  still  lay  asleep,  tranced  in  a  purple  and 
golden-streaked  mist. 

"  Come,  come !  "  said  Jones,  in  his  big  voice. 
"  We're  slow;  here's  the  sun." 

"  Easy,  easy,"  replied  Frank,  "  we've  all  the  time 
there  is." 

When  Frank  threw  the  saddle  over  Satan  I  inter 
rupted  him  and  said  I  would  care  for  my  horse  hence 
forward.  Soon  we  were  under  way,  the  horses  fresh, 
the  dogs  scenting  the  keen,  cold  air. 

The  trail  rolled  over  the  ridges  of  pifion  and 
scrubby  pine.  Occasionally  we  could  see  the  black, 
ragged  crest  of  Buckskin  above  us.  From  one  of 
these  ridges  I  took  my  last  long  look  back  at  the 
desert,  and  engraved  on  my  mind  a  picture  of  the 
red  wall,  and  the  many-hued  ocean  of  sand.  The 

82 


The  Trail 


trail,  narrow  and  indistinct,  mounted  the  last  slow- 
rising  slope ;  the  pinons  failed,  and  the  scrubby  pines 
became  abundant.  At  length  we  reached  the  top, 
and  entered  the  great  arched  aisles  of  Buckskin 
Forest.  The  ground  was  flat  as  a  table.  Magnifi 
cent  pine  trees,  far  apart,  with  branches  high  and 
spreading,  gave  the  eye  glad  welcome.  Some  of  these 
monarchs  were  eight  feet  thick  at  the  base  and  two 
hundred  feet  high.  Here  and  there  one  lay,  gaunt 
and  prostrate,  a  victim  of  the  wind.  The  smell  of 
pitch  pine  was  sweetly  overpowering. 

"  When  I  went  through  here  two  weeks  ago,  the 
snow  was  a  foot  deep,  an'  I  bogged  in  places,"  said 
Frank.  "  The  sun  has  been  oozin'  round  here  some. 
I'm  afraid  Jones  won't  find  any  snow  on  this  end  of 
Buckskin." 

Thirty  miles  of  winding  trail,  brown  and  springy 
from  its  thick  mat  of  pine  needles,  shaded  always  by 
the  massive,  seamy-barked  trees,  took  us  over  the 
extremity  of  Buckskin.  Then  we  faced  down  into 
the  head  of  a  ravine  that  ever  grew  deeper,  stonier 
and  rougher.  I  shifted  from  side  to  side,  from  leg 
to  leg  in  my  saddle,  dismounted  and  hobbled  before 
Satan,  mounted  again,  and  rode  on.  Jones  called 
the  dogs  and  complained  to  them  of  the  lack  of 
snow.  Wallace  sat  his  horse  comfortably,  taking 
long  pulls  at  his  pipe  and  long  gazes  at  the  shaggy 

83 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


sides  of  the  ravine.  Frank,  energetic  and  tireless, 
kept  the  pack-horses  in  the  trail.  Jim  jogged  on 
silently.  And  so  we  rode  down  to  Oak  Spring. 

The  spring  was  pleasantly  situated  in  a  grove  of 
oaks  and  ^inons,  under  the  shadow  of  three  cliffs. 
Three  ravines  opened  here  into  an  oval  valley.  A 
rude  cabin  of  rough-hewn  logs  stood  near  the  spring. 

"  Get  down,  get  down,"  sang  out  Frank.  "  We'll 
hang  up  here.  Beyond  Oak  is  No-Man's-Land.  We 
take  our  chances  on  water  after  we  leave  here." 

When  we  had  unsaddled,  unpacked,  and  got  a 
fire  roaring  on  the  wide  stone  hearth  of  the  cabin, 
it  was  once  again  night. 

"  Boys,"  said  Jones  after  supper,  "  we're  now  on 
the  edge  of  the  lion  country.  Frank  saw  lion  sign 
in  here  only  two  weeks  ago;  and  though  the  snow  is 
gone,  we  stand  a  show  of  finding  tracks  in  the  sand 
and  dust.  To-morrow  morning,  before  the  sun  gets 
a  chance  at  the  bottom  of  these  ravines,  we'll  be  up 
and  doing.  We'll  each  take  a  dog  and  search  in 
different  directions.  Keep  the  dog  in  leash,  and  when 
he  opens  up,  examine  the  ground  carefully  for  tracks. 
If  a  dog  opens  on  any  track  that  you  are  sure  isn't 
a  lion's,  punish  him.  And  when  a  lion-track  is  found, 
hold  the  dog  in,  wait  and  signal.  We'll  use  a  signal 
I  have  tried  and  found  far-reaching  and  easy  to  yell. 
Waa-hoo!  That's  it.  Once  yelled  it  means  come. 

84 


)ak  Spring  was  pleasantly  situated  in  a  grove  of  oaks  and  pinons." 


The  Trail 


Twice  means   comes   quickly.      Three   times  means 
come — danger!  " 

In  one  corner  of  the  cabin  was  a  platform  of 
poles,  covered  with  straw.  I  threw  the  sleeping-bag 
on  this,  and  was  soon  stretched  out.  Misgivings  as 
to  my  strength  worried  me  before  I  closed  my  eyes. 
Once  on  my  back,  I  felt  I  could  not  rise;  my  chest 
was  sore;  my  cough  deep  and  rasping.  It  seemed 
I  had  scarcely  closed  my  eyes  when  Jones's  impatient 
voice  recalled  me  from  sweet  oblivion. 

"Frank,  Frank,  it's  daylight.  Jim — boys!"  he 
called. 

I  'tumbled  out  in  a  gray,  wan  twilight.  It  was  cold 
enough  to  make  the  fire  acceptable,  but  nothing  like 
the  morning  before  on  Buckskin. 

"  Come  to  the  festal  board,"  drawled  Jim,  almost 
before  I  had  my  boots  laced. 

"Jones,"  said  Frank,  "Jim  an'  I'll  ooze  round 
here  to-day.  There's  lots  to  do,  an'  we  want  to  have 
things  hitched  right  before  we  strike  for  the  Siwash. 
We've  got  to  shoe  Old  Baldy,  an'  if  we  can't  get  him 
locoed,  it'll  take  all  of  us  to  do  it." 

The  light  was  still  gray  when  Jones  led  off  with 
Don,  Wallace  with  Sounder  and  I  with  Moze.  Jones 
directed  us  to  separate,  follow  the  dry  stream  beds  in 
the  ravines,  and  remember  his  instructions  given  the 
night  before. 

85 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


The  ravine  to  the  right,  which  I  entered,  was 
choked  with  huge  stones  fallen  from  the  cliff  above, 
and  pifions  growing  thick;  and  I  wondered  appre 
hensively  how  a  man  could  evade  a  wild  animal  in 
such  a  place,  much  less  chase  it. 

Old  Moze  pulled  on  his  chain  and  sniffed  at  coyote 
and  deer  tracks.  And  every  time  he  evinced  interest 
in  such,  I  cut  him  with  a  switch,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  did  not  notice. 

I  thought  I  heard  a  shout,  and  holding  Moze 
tight,  I  waited  and  listened. 

"  Waa-hoo — waa-hoo !  "  floated  on  the  air,  ratfc 
deadened  as  if  it  had  come  from  round  the  trianguh. 
cliff  that  faced  into  the  valley.    Urging  and  dragging 
Moze,  I  ran  down  the  ravine  as  fast  as  I  could,  a^J 
soon  encountered  Wallace  coming  from  the  middle 
ravine. 

"  Jones,"  he  said  excitedly,  "  this  way — there's  the 
signal  again." 

We  dashed  in  haste  for  the  mouth  of  the  third 
ravine,  and  came  suddenly  upon  Jones,  kneeling  under 
a  pinon  tree. 

"  Boys,  look!  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  pointed  to  the 
ground.  There,  clearly  defined  in  the  dust,  was  a  cat 
track  as  big  as  my  spread  hand,  and  the  mere  sight 
of  it  sent  a  chill  up  my  spine.  "  There's  a  lion  track 
for  you;  made  by  a  female,  a  two-year-old;  but  I 

86 


The  Trail 


can't  say  if  she  passed  here  last  night.  Don  won't 
take  the  trail.  Try  Moze." 

I  led  Moze  to  the  big,  round  imprint,  and  put  his 
nose  down  into  it.  The  old  hound  sniffed  and 
sniffed,  then  lost  interest. 

"Cold!"  ejaculated  Jones.  "No  go.  Try 
Sounder.  Come,  old  boy,  youVe  the  nose  for  it." 

He  urged  the  relucant  hound  forward.  Sounder 
needed  not  to  be  shown  the  trail;  he  stuck  his  nose 
in  it,  and  stood  very  quiet  for  a  long  moment;  then 
he  quivered  slightly,  raised  his  nose  and  sought  the 

<t  track.  Step  by  step  he  went  slowly,  doubtfully. 
.  Jl  at  once  his  tail  wagged  stiffly. 

"  Look  at  that !  "  cried  Jones  in  delight.  "  He's 
c.ught  a  scent  when  the  others  couldn't.  Hyah, 
Moze,  get  back.  Keep  Moze  and  Don  back;  give 
him  room." 

Slowly  Sounder  paced  up  the  ravine,  as  carefully 
as  if  he  were  traveling  on  thin  ice.  He  passed  the 
dusty,  open  trail  to  a  scaly  ground  with  little  bits 
of  grass,  and  he  kept  on. 

We  were  electrified  to  hear  him  give  vent  to  a  deep 
bugle-blast  note  of  eagerness. 

"  By  George,  he's  got  it,  boys !  "  exclaimed  Jones, 
as  he  lifted  the  stubborn,  struggling  hound  off  the 
trail.  "  I  know  that  bay.  ft  means  a  lion  passed 
here  this  morning.  And  we'll  #et  him  up  as  sure 

87 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


as  you're  alive.  Come,  Sounder.  Now  for  the 
horses." 

As  we  ran  pell-mell  into  the  little  glade,  where 
Jim  sat  mending  some  saddle  trapping,  Frank  rode 
up  the  trail  with  the  horses. 

"  Well,  I  heard  Sounder,"  he  said  with  his  genial 
smile.  u  Somethin's  comin'  off,  eh?  You'll  have  to 
ooze  round  some  to  keep  up  with  that  hound." 

I  saddled  Satan  with  fingers  that  trembled  in 
excitement,  and  pushed  my  little  Remington  auto 
matic  into  the  rifle  holster. 

"  Boys,  listen,"  said  our  leader.  "  We're  off  now 
in  the  beginning  of  a  hunt  new  to  you.  Remember — 
no  shooting,  no  blood-letting,  except  in  self-defense. 
Keep  as  close  to  me  as  you  can.  Listen  for  the  dogs, 
and  when  you  fall  behind  or  separate,  yell  out  the 
signal  cry.  Don't  forget  this.  We're  bound  to 
lose  each  other.  Look  out  for  the  spikes  and  branches 
on  the  trees.  If  the  dogs  split,  whoever  follows  the 
one  that  trees  the  lion  must  wait  there  till  the  rest 
come  up.  Off  now!  Come,  Sounder;  Moze,  you 
rascal,  hyah!  Come,  Don,  come,  Puppy,  and  take 
your  medicine." 

Except  Moze,  the  hounds  were  all  trembling  and 
running  eagerly  to  and  fro.  When  Sounder  was 
loosed,  he  led  them  in  a  bee-line  to  the  trail,  with  us 
cantering  after.  Sounder  worked  exactly  as  before, 

88 


The  Trail 


only  he  followed  the  lion  tracks  a  little  farther  up 
the  ravine  before  he  bayed.  He  kept  going  faster 
and  faster,  occasionally  letting  out  one  deep,  short 
yelp.  The  other  hounds  did  not  give  tongue,  but 
eager,  excited,  baffled,  kept  at  his  heels.  The  ravine 
was  long,  and  the  wash  at  the  bottom,  up  which  the 
lion  had  proceeded,  turned  and  twisted  round 
bowlders  large  as  houses,  and  led  through  dense 
growths  of  some  short,  rough  shrub.  Now  and  then 
the  lion  tracks  showed  plainly  in  the  sand.  For  five 
miles  or  more  Sounder  led  us  up  the  ravine,  which 
began  to  contract  and  grow  steep.  The  dry  stream 
bed  got  to  be  full  of  thickets  of  poplar — tall,  straight, 
branchless  saplings,  about  the  size  of  a  man's  arm, 
and  growing  so  close  we  had  to  press  them  aside  to 
let  our  horses  through. 

Presently  Sounder  slowed  up  and  appeared  at 
fault.  We  found  him  puzzling  over  an  open,  grassy 
patch,  and  after  nosing  it  for  a  little  while,  he  began 
skirting  the  edge. 

"Cute  dog!"  declared  Jones.  "That  Sounder 
will  make  a  lion  chaser.  Our  game  has  gone  up  here 
somewhere." 

Sure  enough,  Sounder  directly  gave  tongue  from 
the  side  of  the  ravine.  It  was  climb  for  us  now. 
Broken  shale,  rocks  of  all  dimensions,  pinons  down 
and  pinons  up  made  ascending  no  easy  problem.  We 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


had  to  dismount  and  lead  the  horses,  thus  losing 
ground.  Jones  forged  ahead  and  reached  the  top 
of  the  ravine  first.  When  Wallace  and  I  got  up, 
breathing  heavily,  Jones  and  the  hounds  were  out  of 
sight.  But  Sounder  kept  voicing  his  clear  call,  giving 
us  our  direction.  Off  we  flew,  over  ground  that  was 
still  rough,  but  enjoyable  going  compared  to  the 
ravine  slopes.  The  ridge  was  sparsely  covered  with 
cedar  and  pinon,  through  which,  far  ahead,  we  pretty 
soon  spied  Jones.  Wallace  signaled,  and  our  leader 
answered  twice.  We  caught  up  with  him  on  the 
brink  of  another  ravine  deeper  and  craggier  than  the 
first,  full  of  dead,  gnarled  pinon  and  splintered  rocks. 

"  This  gulch  is  the  largest  of  the  three  that  head 
in  at  Oak  Spring,1'  said  Jones.  "  Boys,  don't  forget 
your  direction.  Always  keep  a  feeling  where  camp 
is,  always  sense  it  every  time  you  turn.  The  dogs 
have  gone  down.  That  lion  is  in  here  somewhere. 
Maybe  he  lives  down  in  the  high  cliffs  near  the  spring 
and  came  up  here  last  night  for  a  kill  he's  buried 
somewhere.  Lions  never  travel  far.  Hark !  Hark ! 
There's  Sounder  and  the  rest  of  them!  They've 
got  the  scent ;  they've  all  got  it !  Down,  boys,  down, 
and  ride!" 

With  that  he  crashed  into  the  cedar  in  a  way  that 
showed  me  how  impervious  he  was  to  slashing 
branches,  sharp  as  thorns,  and  steep  descent  and  peril. 

90 


The  Trail 


Wallace's  big  sorrel  plunged  after  him  and  the  roll 
ing  stones  cracked.  Suffering  as  I  was  by  this  time, 
with  cramp  in  my  legs,  and  torturing  pain,  I  had  to 
choose  between  holding  my  horse  in  or  falling  off; 
so  I  chose  the  former  and  accordingly  got  behind. 

Dead  cedar  and  pinon  trees  lay  everywhere,  with 
their  contorted  limbs  reaching  out  like  the  arms  of  a 
devil-fish.  Stones  blocked  every  opening.  Making 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine  after  what  seemed  an  inter 
minable  time,  I  found  the  tracks  of  Jones  and  Wal 
lace.  A  long  "  Waa-hoo!  "  drew  me  on;  then  the 
mellow  bay  of  a  hound  floated  up  the  ravine.  Satan 
made  up  time  in  the  sandy  stream  bed,  but  kept  me 
busily  dodging  overhanging  branches.  I  became 
aware,  after  a  succession  of  efforts  to  keep  from  being 
strung  on  pinons,  that  the  sand  before  me  was  clean 
and  trackless.  Hauling  Satan  up  sharply,  I  waited 
irresolutely  and  listened.  Then  from  high  up  the 
ravine  side  wafted  down  a  medley  of  yelps  and  barks. 

"  Waa-hoo,  waa-hoo !  "  ringing  down  the  slope, 
pealed  against  the  cliff  behind  me,  and  sent  the  wild 
echoes  flying. 

Satan,  of  his  own  accord,  headed  up  the  incline. 
Surprised  at  this,  I  gave  him  free  rein.  How  he 
did  climb !  Not  long  did  it  take  me  to  discover  that 
he  picked  out  easier  going  than  I  had.  Once  I  saw 
Jones  crossing  a  ledge  far  above  me,  and  I  yelled  our 

91 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


signal  cry.  The  answer  returned  clear  and  sharp; 
then  its  echo  cracked  under  the  hollow  cliff,  and 
crossing  and  recrossing  the  ravine,  it  died  at  last  far 
away,  like  the  muffled  peal  of  a  bell-buoy.  Again  I 
heard  the  blended  yelping  of  the  hounds,  and  closer 
at  hand.  I  saw  a  long,  low  cliff  above,  and  decided 
that  the  hounds  were  running  at  the  base  of  it. 
Another  chorus  of  yelps,  quicker,  wilder  than  the 
others,  drew  a  yell  from  me.  Instinctively  I  knew 
the  dogs  had  jumped  game  of  some  kind.  Satan 
knew  it  as  well  as  I,  for  he  quickened  his  pace  and 
sent  the  stones  clattering  behind  him. 

I  gained  the  base  of  the  yellow  cliff,  but  found  no 
tracks  in  the  dust  of  ages  that  had  crumbled  in  its 
shadow,  nor  did  I  hear  the  dogs.  Considering  how 
close  they  had  seemed,  tiiis  was  strange.  I  halted 
and  listened.  Silence  reigned  supreme.  The  ragged 
cracks  in  the  cliff  walls  could  have  harbored  many  a 
watching  lion,  and  I  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  into 
their  dark  confines.  Then  I  turned  my  horse  to  get 
round  the  cliff  and  over  the  ridge.  When  I  again 
stopped,  all  I  could  hear  was  the  thumping  of  my 
heart  and  the  labored  panting  of  Satan.  I  came  to 
a  break  in  the  cliff,  a  steep  place  of  weathered  rock, 
and  I  put  Satan  to  it.  He  went  up  with  a  will.  From 
the  narrow  saddle  of  the  ridge-crest  I  tried  to  take 
my  bearings.  Below  me  slanted  the  green  of  pinon, 


The  Trail 


with  the  bleached  treetops  standing  like  spears,  and 
uprising  yellow  stones.  Fancying  I  heard  a  gun 
shot,  I  leaned  a  straining  ear  against  the  soft  breeze. 
The  proof  came  presently  in  the  unmistakable  report 
of  Jones's  blunderbuss.  It  was  repeated  almost 
instantly,  giving  reality  to  the  direction,  which  was 
down  the  slope  of  what  I  concluded  must  be  the 
third  ravine.  Wondering  what  was  the  meaning  of 
the  shots,  and  chagrined  because  I  was  out  of  the 
race,  but  calmer  in  mind,  I  let  Satan  stand. 

Hardly  a  moment  elapsed  before  a  sharp  bark 
tingled  in  my  ears.  It  belonged  to  old  Moze.  Soon 
I  distinguished  a  rattling  of  stones  and  the  sharp, 
metallic  clicks  of  hoofs  striking  recks.  Then  into 
a  space  below  me  loped  a  beautiful  deer,  so  large  that 
at  first  I  took  it  for  an  eik.  Another  sharp  bark, 
nearer  this  time,  told  the  tale  of  Moze's  dereliction. 
In  a  few  moments  he  came  in  sight,  running  with 
his  tongue  out  and  his  head  high. 

"  Hyah,  you  old  gladiator!  hyah!  hyah!  "  I  yelled 
and  yelled  again.  Moze  passed  over  the  saddle  on 
the  trail  of  the  deer,  and  his  short  bark  floated  back 
to  remind  me  how  far  he  was  from  a  lion  dog. 

Then  I  divined  the  meaning  of  the  shotgun 
reports.  The  hounds  had  crossed  a  fresher  trail  than 
that  of  the  lion,  and  our  leader  had  discovered  it. 
Despite  a  keen  appreciation  of  Jones's  task,  I  gave 

93 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


way  to  amusement,  and  repeated  Wallace's  para 
doxical  formula :  "  Pet  the  lions  and  shoot  the 
hounds." 

So  I  headed  down  the  ravine,  looking  for  a  blunt, 
bold  crag,  which  I  had  descried  from  camp.  I  found 
it  before  long,  and  profiting  by  past  failures  to  judge 
of  distance,  gave  my  first  impression  a  great  stretch, 
and  then  decided  that  I  was  more  than  two  miles 
from  Oak. 

Long  after  two  miles  had  been  covered,  and  I  had 
begun  to  associate  Jim's  biscuits  with  a  certain  soft 
seat  near  a  ruddy  fire,  I  was  apparently  still  the  same 
distance  from  my  landmark  crag.  Suddenly  a  slight 
noise  brought  me  to  a  halt.  I  listened  intently.  Only 
an  indistinct  rattling  of  small  rocks  disturbed  the 
impressive  stillness.  It  might  have  been  the  weather 
ing  that  goes  on  constantly,  and  it  might  have  been 
an  animal.  I  inclined  to  the  former  idea  till  I  saw 
Satan's  ears  go  up.  Jones  had  told  me  to  watch 
the  ears  of  my  horse,  and  short  as  had  been  my 
acquaintance  with  Satan,  I  had  learned  that  he  always 
discovered  things  more  quickly  than  I.  So  I  waited 
patiently. 

From  time  to  time  a  rattling  roll  of  pebbles,  almost 
musical,  caught  my  ear.  It  came  from  the  base  of 
the  wall  of  yellow  cliff  that  barred  the  summit  of 
all  those  ridges.  Satan  threw  up  his  head  and  nosed 

94 


The  Trail 


the  breeze.  The  delicate,  almost  stealthy  sounds, 
the  action  of  my  horse,  the  waiting  drove  my  heart 
to  extra  work.  The  breeze  quickened  and  fanned  my 
cheek,  and  borne  upon  it  came  the  faint  and  far-away 
bay  of  a  hound.  It  came  again  and  again,  each  time 
nearer.  Then  on  a  stronger  puff  of  wind  rang  the 
clear,  deep,  mellow  call  that  had  given  Sounder  his 
beautiful  name.  Never  it  seemed  had  I  heard  music 
so  blood-stirring.  Sounder  was  on  the  trail  of  some 
thing,  and  he  had  it  headed  my  way.  Satan  heard, 
shot  up  his  long  ears,  and  tried  to  go  ahead;  but  I 
restrained  and  soothed  him  into  quiet. 

Long  moments  I  sat  there,  with  the  poignant  con 
sciousness  of  the  wildness  of  the  scene,  of  the  signifi 
cant  rattling  of  the  stones  and  of  the  bell-tongued 
hound  baying  incessantly,  sending  warm  joy  through 
my  veins,  the  absorption  in  sensations  new,  yielding 
only  to  the  hunting  instinct  when  Satan  snorted  and 
quivered.  Again  the  deep-toned  bay  rang  into  the 
silence  with  its  stirring  thrill  of  life.  And  a  sharp 
rattling  of  stones  just  above  brought  another  snort 
from  Satan. 

Across  an  open  space  in  the  pinons  a  gray  form 
flashed.  I  leaped  off  Satan  and  knelt  to  get  a  better 
view  under  the  trees.  I  soon  made  out  another  deer 
passing  along  the  base  of  the  cliff.  Mounting  again, 
I  rode  up  to  the  cliff  to  wait  for  Sounder. 

95 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


A  long  time  I  had  to  wait  for  the  hound.  It 
proved  that  the  atmosphere  was  as  deceiving  in 
regard  to  sound  as  to  sight.  Finally  Sounder  came 
running  along  the  wall.  I  got  off  to  intercept  him. 
The  crazy  fellow — he  had  never  responded  to  my 
overtures  of  friendship — uttered  short,  sharp  yelps 
of  delight,  and  actually  leaped  into  my  arms.  But 
I  could  not  hold  him.  He  darted  upon  the  trail 
again  and  paid  no  heed  to  my  angry  shouts.  With 
a  resolve  to  overhaul  him,  I  jumped  on  Satan  and 
whirled  after  the  hound. 

The  black  stretched  out  with  such  a  stride  that  I 
was  at  pains  to  keep  my  seat.  I  dodged  the  jutting 
rocks  and  projecting  snags;  felt  stinging  branches  in 
my  face  and  the  rush  of  sweet,  dry  wind.  Under 
the  crumbling  v.Talls,  over  slopes  of  weathered  stone 
and  droppings  of  shelving  rock,  round  protruding 
noses  of  cliff,  over  and  under  pinons  Satan  thundered. 
He  came  out  on  the  top  of  the  ridge,  at  the  narrow 
back  I  had  called  a  saddle.  Here  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Sounder  far  below,  going  down  into  the  ravine 
from  which  I  had  ascended  some  time  before.  I 
called  to  him,  but  I  might  as  well  have  called  to  the 
wind. 

Weary  to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  I  once  more 
turned  Satan  toward  camp.  I  lay  forward  on  his 
neck  and  let  him  have  his  will.  Far  down  the  ravine 

96 


The  Trail 


I  awoke  to  strange  sounds,  and  soon  recognized  the 
cracking  of  iron-shod  hoofs  against  stone;  then  voices. 
Turning  an  abrupt  bend  in  the  sandy  wash,  I  ran 
into  Jones  and  Wallace. 

"  Fall  in !  Line  up  in  the  sad  procession !  "  said 
Jones.  "  Tige  and  the  pup  are  faithful.  The  rest 
of  the  dogs  are  somewhere  between  the  Grand  Canon 
and  the  Utah  desert." 

I  related  my  adventures,  and  tried  to  spare  Moze 
and  Sounder  as  much  as  conscience  would  permit. 

"  Hard  luck!  "  commented  Jones.  "  Just  as  the 
hounds  jumped  the  cougar — Oh !  they  bounced  him 
out  of  the  rocks  all  right — don't  you  remember,  just 
under  that  cliff  wall  where  you  and  Wallace  came  up 
to  me?  Well,  just  as  they  jumped  him,  they  ran  right 
into  fresh  deer  tracks.  I  saw  one  of  the  deer.  Now 
that's  too  much  for  any  hounds,  except  those  trained 
for  lions.  I  shot  at  Moze  twice,  but  couldn't  turn 
him.  He  has  to  be  hurt,  they've  all  got  to  be  hurt 
to  make  them  understand." 

Wallace  told  of  a  wild  ride  somewhere  in  Jones's 
wake,  and  of  sundry  knocks  and  bruises  he  had  sus 
tained,  of  pieces  of  corduroy  he  had  left  decorating 
the  cedars  and  of  a  most  humiliating  event,  where  a 
gaunt  and  bare  pinon  snag  had  penetrated  under  his 
belt  and  lifted  him,  mad  and  kicking,  off  his  horse. 

"  These  Western  nags  will  hang  you  on  a  limb 
97 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


every  chance  they  get,"  declared  Jones,  "  and  don't 
you  overlook  that.  Well,  there's  the  cabin.  We'd 
better  stay  here  a  few  days  or  a  week  and  break  in 
the  dogs  and  horses,  for  this  day's  work  was  apple-pie 
to  what  we'll  get  in  the  Siwash." 

I  groaned  inwardly,  and  was  remorselessly  glad 
to  see  Wallace  fall  off  his  horse  and  walk  on  one  leg 
to  the  cabin.  When  I  got  my  saddle  off  Satan,  had 
given  him  a  drink  and  hobbled  him,  I  crept  into  the 
cabin  and  dropped  like  a  log.  I  felt  as  if  every  bone 
in  my  body  was  broken  and  my  flesh  was  raw.  I 
got  gleeful  gratification  from  Wallace's  complaints, 
and  Jones's  remark  that  he  had  a  stitch  in  his  back. 
So  ended  the  first  chase  after  cougars. 


98 


CHAPTER   V 

OAK  SPRING 

MOZE  and  Don  and  Sounder  straggled  into 
camp  next  morning,  hungry,  footsore  and 
scarred;  and  as  they  limped  in,  Jones  met 
them  with  characteristic  speech:  "  Well,  you  decided 
to  come  in  when  you  got  hungry  and  tired?    Never" 
thought  of  how  you  fooled  me,  did  you  ?    Now,  the 
first  thing  you  get  is  a  good  licking." 

He  tied  them  in  a  little  log  pen  near  the  cabin  and 
whipped  them  soundly.  And  the  next  few  days, 
while  Wallace  and  I  rested,  he  took  them  out  sepa 
rately  and  deliberately  ran  them  over  coyote  and  deer 
trails.  Sometimes  we  heard  his  stentorian  yell  as  a 
forerunner  to  the  blast  from  his  old  shotgun.  Then 
again  we  heard  the  shots  unheralded  by  the  yell. 
Wallace  and  I  waxed  warm  under  the  collar  over 
this  peculiar  method  of  training  dogs,  and  each  of 
us  made  dire  threats.  But  in  justice  to  their  implaca 
ble  trainer,  the  dogs  never  appeared  to  be  hurt; 
never  a  spot  of  blood  flecked  their  glossy  coats,  nor 
did  they  ever  come  home  limping.  Sounder  grew 
wise,  and  Don  gave  up,  but  Moze  appeared  not  to 
change. 

99 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  All  hands  ready  to  rustle,"  sang  out  Frank  one 
morning.  "  Old  Baldy's  got  to  be  shod." 

This  brought  us  all,  except  Jones,  out  of  the  cabin, 
to  see  the  object  of  Frank's  anxiety  tied  to  a  nearby 
oak.  At  first  I  failed  to  recognize  Old  Baldy.  Van 
ished  was  the  slow,  sleepy,  apathetic  manner  that 
had  characterized  him;  his  ears  lay  back  on  his  head; 
fire  flashed  from  his  eyes.  When  Frank  threw  down 
a  kit-bag,  which  emitted  a  metallic  clanking,  Old 
Baldy  sat  back  on  his  haunches,  planted  his  forefeet 
deep  in  the  ground  and  plainly  as  a  horse  could  speak, 
said"  No!" 

"  Sometimes  he's  bad,  and  sometimes  worse," 
growled  Frank. 

"  Shore  he's  plumb  bad  this  mornin',"  replied  Jim. 

Frank  got  the  three  of  us  to  hold  Baldy's  head  and 
pull  him  up,  then  he  ventured  to  lift  a  hind  foot  over 
his  knee.  Old  Baldy  straightened  out  his  leg  and 
sent  Frank  sprawling  into  the  dirt.  Twice  again 
Frank  patiently  tried  to  hold  a  hind  leg,  with  the 
same  result;  and  then  he  lifted  a  forefoot.  Baldy 
uttered  a  very  intelligible  snort,  bit  through  Wallace's 
glove,  yanked  Jim  off  his  feet,  and  scared  me  so  that 
I  let  go  his  forelook.  Then  he  broke  the  rope  which 
held  him  to  the  tree.  There  was  a  plunge,  a  scatter 
ing  of  men,  though  Jim  still  valiantly  held  on  to 

Baldy's  head,  and  a  thrashing  of  scrub  pifion,  where 

100 


Oak  Spring 


Baldy  reached  out  vigorously  with  his  hind  feet.    But 
for  Jim,  he  would  have  escaped. 

"What's  all  the  row?"  called  Jones  from  the 
cabin.  Then  from  the  door,  taking  in  the  situation, 
he  yelled :  "  Hold  on,  Jim !  Pull  down  on  the  ornery 
old  cayuse!  " 

He  leaped  into  action  with  a  lasso  in  each  hand, 
one  whirling  round  his  head.  The  slender  rope 
straightened  with  a  whiz  and  whipped  round  Baldy's 
legs  as  he  kicked  viciously.  Jones  pulled  it  tight, 
then  fastened  it  with  nimble  fingers  to  the  tree. 

"Let  go!  let  go,  Jim!  "  he  yelled,  whirling  the 
other  lasso.  The  loop  flashed  and  fell  over  Baldy's 
head  and  tightened  round  his  neck.  Jones  threw  all 
the  weight  of  his  burly  form  on  the  lariat,  and  Baldy 
crashed  to  the  ground,  rolled,  tussled,  screamed,  and 
then  lay  on  his  back,  kicking  the  air  with  three  free 
legs.  "  Hold  this !  "  ordered  Jones,  giving  the  tight 
rope  to  Frank.  Whereupon  he  grabbed  my  lasso 
from  the  saddle,  roped  Baldy's  two  forefeet,  and 
pulled  him  down  on  his  side.  This  lasso  he  fastened 
to  a  scrub  cedar. 

"  He's  chokin' !  "  said  Frank. 

"  Likely  he  is,"  replied  Jones  shortly.  "  It'll  do 
him  good."  But  with  his  big  hands  he  drew  the  coil 
loose  and  slipped  it  down  over  Baldy's  nose,  where 
he  tightened  it  again. 

101 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  Now,  go  ahead,"  he  said,  taking  the  rope  from 
Frank. 

It  had  all  been  done  in  a  twinkling.  Baldy  lay 
there  groaning  and  helpless,  and  when  Frank  once 
again  took  hold  of  the  wicked  leg,  he  was  almost 
passive.  When  the  shoeing  operation  had  been 
neatly  and  quickly  attended  to  and  Baldy  released 
from  his  uncomfortable  position  he  struggled  to  his 
feet  with  heavy  breaths,  shook  himself,  and  looked 
at  his  master. 

"  How'd  you  like  being  hog-tied?  "  queried  his 
conqueror,  rubbing  Baldy's  nose.  "  Now,  after  this 
you'll  have  some  manners." 

Old  Baldy  seemed  to  understand,  for  he  looked 
sheepish,  and  lapsed  once  more  into  his  listless,  lazy 
unconcern. 

"Where's  Jim's  old  cayuse,  the  pack-horse?" 
asked  our  leader. 

"  Lost.  Couldn't  find  him  this  morning,  an'  had 
a  deuce  of  a  time  findin'  the  rest  of  the  bunch.  Old 
Baldy  was  cute.  He  hid  in  a  bunch  of  pinons  an' 
stood  quiet  so  his  bell  wouldn't  ring.  I  had  to  trail 
him." 

"  Do  the  horses  stray  far  when  they  are  hobbled?  " 
inquired  Wallace. 

"If  they  keep  jumpin'  all  night  they  can  cover 

some  territory.     We're  now  on  the  edge  of  the  wild 

102 


Oak  Spring 


horse  country,  and  our  nags  know  this  as  well  as  we. 
They  smell  the  mustangs,  an'  would  break  their  necks 
to  get  away.  Satan  and  the  sorrel  were  ten  miles 
from  camp  when  I  found  them  this  mornin'.  An' 
Jim's  cayuse  went  farther,  an'  we  never  will  get  him. 
He'll  wear  his  hobbles  out,  then  away  with  the  wild 
horses.  Once  with  them,  he'll  never  be  caught 
again." 

On  the  sixth  day  of  our  stay  at  Oak  we  had 
visitors,  whom  Frank  introduced  as  the  Stewart 
brothers  and  Lawson,  wild-horse  wranglers.  They 
were  still,  dark  men,  whose  facial  expression  seldom 
varied;  tall  and  lithe  and  wiry  as  the  mustangs  they 
rode.  The  Stewarts  were  on  their  way  to  Kanab, 
Utah,  to  arrange  for  the  sale  of  a  drove  of  horses 
they  had  captured  and  corraled  in  a  narrow  canon 
back  in  the  Siwash.  Lawson  said  he  was  at  our 
service,  and  was  promptly  hired  to  look  after  our 
horses. 

"Any  cougar  signs  back  in  the  breaks?"  asked 
Jones. 

"  Wai,  there's  a  cougar  on  every  deer  trail," 
replied  the  elder  Stewart,  "  an'  two  for  every  pinto 
in  the  breaks.  Old  Tom  himself  downed  fifteen 
colts  fer  us  this  spring." 

"  Fifteen  colts !  That's  wholesale  murder.  Why 
don't  you  kill  the  butcher?  " 

103 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  We've  tried  more'n  onct.  It's  a  turrible  busted 
up  country,  them  brakes.  No  man  knows  it,  an'  the 
cougars  do.  Old  Tom  ranges  all  the  ridges  and 
brakes,  even  up  on  the  slopes  of  Buckskin;  but  he 
lives  down  there  in  them  holes,  an'  Lord  knows,  no 
dog  I  ever  seen  could  follow  him.  We  tracked  him 
in  the  snow,  an'  had  dogs  after  him,  but  none  could 
stay  with  him,  except  two  as  never  cum  back.  But 
we've  nothin'  agin  Old  Tom  like  Jeff  Clarke,  a  hoss 
rustler,  who  has  a  string  of  pintos  corraled  north  of 
us.  Clarke  swears  he  ain't  raised  a  colt  in  two  years." 

"  We'll  put  that  old  cougar  up  a  tree,"  exclaimed 
Jones.  C)j 

"If  you  kill  him  we'll  make  you  all  a  present  of  a 
mustang,  an'  Clarke,  he'll  give  you  two  each,"  replied 
Stewart.  "  We'd  be  gettin'  rid  of  him  cheap." 

"  How  many  wild  horses  on  the  mountain  now?  " 

"  Hard  to  tell.  Two  or  three  thousand,  mebbe. 
There's  almost  no  ketchin'  them,  an1  they're  growin' 
all  the  time.  We  ain't  had  no  luck  this  spring.  The 
bunch  in  corral  we  got  last  year." 

"  Seen  anythin'  of  the  White  Mustang?  "  inquired 
Frank.  "  Ever  get  a  rope  near  him?  " 

"  No  nearer'n  we  hev  fer  six  years  back.  He  can't 
be  ketched.  We  seen  him  an'  his  band  of  blacks  a 
few  days  ago,  headin'  fer  a  water-hole  down  where 
Nail  Canon  runs  into  Kanab  Canon.  He's  so  cunnin' 

104 


Oak  Spring 


he'll  never  water  at  any  of  our  trap  corrals.  An' 
we  believe  he  can  go  without  water  fer  two  weeks, 
unless  mebbe  he  hes  a  secret  hole  we've  never  trailed 
him  to." 

"  Would  we  have  any  chance  to  see  this  White 
Mustang  and  his  band?  "  questioned  Jones. 

"  See  him?  Why,  thet'd  be  easy.  Go  down  Snake 
Gulch,  camp  at  Singin'  Cliffs,  go  over  into  Nail 
Canon,  an'  wait.  Then  send  some  one  slippin'  down 
to  the  water-hole  at  Kanab  Canon,  an'  when  the  band 
cums  in  to  drink — which  I  reckon  will  be  in  a  few 
days  now — hev  them  drive  the  mustangs  up.  Only 
be  sure  ^o  hev  them  get  ahead  of  the  White  Mustang, 
so  he'll  hev  only  one  way  to  cum,  fer  he  sure  is 
knowin'.  He  never  makes  a  mistake.  Mebbe  you'll 
get  to  see  him  cum  by  like  a  white  streak.  Why,  I've 
heerd  thet  mustang's  hoofs  ring  like  bells  on  the 
rocks  a  mile  away.  His  hoofs  are  harder'n  any  iron 
shoe  as  was  ever  made.  But  even  if  you  don't  get 
to  see  him,  Snake  Gulch  is  worth  seein'." 

I  learned  later  from  Stewart  that  the  White  Mus 
tang  was  a  beautiful  stallion  of  the  wildest  strain  of 
mustang  blue  blood.  He  had  roamed  the  long 
reaches  between  the  Grand  Canon  and  Buckskin 
toward  its  southern  slope  for  years ;  he  had  been  the 
most  sought-for  horse  by  all  the  wranglers,  and  had 
become  so  shy  and  experienced  that  nothing  but  a 

105 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


glimpse  was  ever  obtained  of  him.  A  singular  fact 
was  that  he  never  attached  any  of  his  own  species  to 
his  band,  unless  they  were  coal  black.  He  had  been 
known  to  fight  and  kill  other  stallions,  but  he  kept 
out  of  the  well-wooded  and  watered  country  fre 
quented  by  other  bands,  and  ranged  the  brakes  of 
the  Siwash  as  far  as  he  could  range.  The  usual 
method,  indeed  the  only  successful  way  to  capture 
wild  horses,  was  to  build  corrals  round  the  water- 
holes.  The  wranglers  lay  out  night  after  night 
watching.  When  the  mustangs  came  to  drink — 
which  was  always  after  dark — the  gates  would  be 
closed  on  them.  But  the  trick  had  never  even  been 
tried  on  the  White  Mustang,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  never  approached  one  of  thesrci, traps. 

"  Boys,"  said  Jones,  "  seeing  we  need  breaking 
in,  we'll  give  the  White  Mustang  a  little  run." 

This  was  most  pleasureable  news,  for  the  wild 
horses  fascinated  me.  Besides,  I  saw  from  the  expres 
sion  on  our  leader's  face  that  an  uncapturable  mus 
tang  was  an  object  of  interest  to  him. 

Wallace  and  I  had  employed  the  last  few  warm, 
sunny  afternoons  in  riding  up  and  down  the  valley 
below  Oak,  where  there  was  a  fine,  level  stretch. 
Here  I  wore  out  my  soreness  of  muscle,  and  gradu 
ally  overcame  my  awkwardness  in  the  saddle. 
Frank's  remedy  of  maple  sugar  and  red  pepper  had 

106 


Oak  Spring 


rid  me  of  my  cold,  and  with  the  return  of  strength, 
and  the  coming  of  confidence,  full,  joyous  appreci 
ation  of  wild  environment  and  life  made  me  unspeak 
ably  happy.  And  I  noticed  that  my  companions  were 
in  like  condition  of  mind,  though  self-contained 
where  I  was  exuberant.  Wallace  galloped  his  sorrel 
and  watched  the  crags;  Jones  talked  more  kindly  to 
the  dogs;  Jim  baked  biscuits  indefatigably,  and 
smoked  in  contented  silence;  Frank  said  always: 
"  We'll  ooze  along  easy  like,  for  we've  all  the  time 
there  is."  Which  sentiment,  whether  from  reiter 
ated  suggestion,  or  increasing  confidence  in  the  prac 
tical  cowboy,  or  charm  of  its  free  import,  gradually 
won  us  all. 

"  Boys,  b;  _d  Jones,  as  we  sat  round  the  campfire, 
u  I  see  you're  getting  in  shape.  Well,  I've  worn  off 
the  wire  edge  myself.  And  I  have  the  hounds  corn 
ing  fine.  They  mind  me  now,  but  they*re  mystified. 
For  the  life  of  them  they  can't  under;  tar;'.]  what  I 
mean.  I  don't  blame  them.  Wait  till,  by  good  luck, 
we  get  a  cougar  in  a  tree.  When  Sounder  and  Don 
see  that,  we've  lion  dogs,  boys!  we've  lion  dogs! 
But  Moze  is  a  stubborn  brute.  In  all  my  years  of 
animal  experience,  I've  never  discovered  any  other 
way  to  make  animals  obey  than  by  instilling  fear  and 
respect  into  their  hearts.  I've  been  fond  of  buffalo, 
horses  and  dogs,  but  sentiment  never  ruled  me. 

107 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


When  animals  must  obey,  they  must — that's  all,  and 
no  mawkishness!  But  I  never  trusted  a  buffalo  in 
my  life.  If  I  had  I  wouldn't  be  here  to-night.  You 
all  know  how  many  keepers  of  tame  wild  animals  get 
killed.  I  could  tell  you  dozens  of  tragedies.  And 
I've  often  thought,  since  I  got  back  from  New  York, 
of  that  woman  I  saw  with  her  troop  of  African  lions. 
I  dream  about  those  lions,  and  see  them  leaping  over 
her  head.  Whai  a  grand  sight  that  was !  But  the 
public  is  fooled.  1  read  somewhere  that  she  trained 
those  lions  by  love.  I  don't  believe  it.  I  saw  her  use 
a  whip  and  a  steel  spear.  Moreover,  I  saw  many 
things  that  escaped  most  observers — how  she  entered 
the  cage,  how  she  maneuvered  among  them,  how  she 
kept  a  compelling  gaze  on  them!  It  was  an  admi 
rable,  a  great  piece  of  work.  Maybe  she  loves  those 
huge  yellow  brutes,  but  her  life  was  in  danger  every 
moment  while  she  was  in  that  cage,  and  she  knew 
it.  Some  day,  one  of  her  pets — likely  the  King  of 
Beasts  she  pets  the  most — will  rise  up  and  kill  her. 
That  is  as  certain  as  death." 


108 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE   WHITE   MUSl^NG 

FOR  thirty  miles  down  Nail  Canon  we  marked, 
in  every  dusty  trail  and  sandy  wash,  the  small, 
oval,   sharply   defined  tracks   of  the   White 
Mustang  and  his  band. 

The  canon  had  been  well  named.  It  was  long, 
straight  and  square  sided;  its  bare  walls  glared  steel- 
gray  in  the  sun,  smooth,  glistening  surfaces  that  had 
been  polished  by  wind  and  water.  No  weathered 
heaps  of  shale,  no  crumbled  piles  of  stone  obstructed 
its  level  floor.  And,  softly  toning  its  drab  austerity, 
here  grew  the  white  sage,  waving  in  the  breeze,  the 
Indian  Paint  Brush,  with  vivid  vermilion  flower, 
and  patches  of  fresh,  green  grass. 

"  The  White  King,  as  we  Arizona  wild-hoss  wran 
glers  calls  this  mustang,  is  mighty  pertickler  about 
his  feed,  an'  he  ranged  along  here  last  night,  easy 
like,  browsin'  on  this  white  sage,"  said  Stewart. 
Infected  by  our  intense  interest  in  the  famous  mus 
tang,  and  ruffled  slightly  by  Jones's  manifest  surprise 
and  contempt  that  no  one  had  captured  him,  Stewart 
had  volunteered  to  guide  us.  "  Never  knowed  him 

109 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


to  run  in  this  way  fer  water;  fact  is,  never  knowed 
Nail  Canon  hed  a  fork.  It  splits  down  here,  but 
you'd  think  it  was  only  a  crack  in  the  wall.  An'  thet 
cunnin'  mustang  hes  been  foolin'  us  fer  years  about 
this  water-hole." 

The  fork  of  Nail  Canon,  which  Stewart  had 
decided  we  were  in,  had  been  accidentally  discovered 
by  Frank,  who,  in  search  of  our  horses  one  morning, 
had  crossed  a  ridge,  to  come  suddenly  upon  the  blind, 
box-like  head  of  the  canon.  Stewart  knew  the  lay 
of  the  ridges  and  run  of  the  canons  as  well  as  any 
man  could  know  a  country  where,  seemingly,  every 
rod  was  ridged  and  bisected,  and  he  was  of  the 
opinion  that  we  had  stumbled  upon  one  of  the  White 
Mustang's  secret  passages,  by  which  he  had  so  often 
eluded  his  pursuers. 

Hard  riding  had  been  the  order  of  the  day,  but 
still  we  covered  ten  more  miles  by  sundown.  The 
canon  apparently  closed  in  on  us,  so  camp  was  made 
for  the  night.  The  horses  were  staked  out,  and 
supper  made  ready  while  the  shadows  were  dropping; 
and  when  darkness  settled  thick  over  us,  we  lay  under 
our  blankets. 

Morning  disclosed  the  White  Mustang's  secret 
passage.  It  was  a  narrow  cleft,  splitting  the  canon 
wall,  rough,  uneven,  tortuous  and  choked  with 
fallen  rocks — no  more  than  a  wonderful  crack  in 

110 


The  White  Mustang 


solid  stone,  opening  into,  another  canon.  Above  us 
the  sky  seemed  a  winding,  flowing  stream  of  blue. 
The  walls  were  so  close  in  places  that  a  horse  with 
pack  would  have  been  blocked,  and  a  rider  had  to 
pull  his  legs  up  over  the  saddle.  On  the  far  side, 
the  passage  fell  very  suddenly  for  several  hundred 
feet  to  the  floor  of  the  other  canon.  No  hunter  could 
have  seen  it,  or  suspected  it  from  that  side. 

"  This  is  Grand  Canon  country,  an1  nobody  knows 
what  he's  goin'  to  find,"  was  Frank's  comment. 

"  Now  we're  in  Nail  Canon  proper,"  said  Stewart, 
"  an'  I  know  my  bearin's.  I  can  climb  out  a  mile 
below  an'  cut  across  to  Kanab  Canon,  an'  slip  up 
into  Nail  Canon  agin,  ahead  of  the  mustangs,  an' 
drive  'em  up.  I  can't  miss  'em,  fer  Kanab  Canon 
is  impassable  down  a  little  ways.  The  mustangs  will 
hev  to  run  this  way.  So  all  you  need  do  is  go  below 
the  break,  where  I  climb  out,  an'  wait.  You're  sure 
goin'  to  get  a  look  at  the  White  Mustang.  But 
wait.  Don't  expect  him  before  noon,  an'  after  thet, 
any  time  till  he  comes.  Mebbe  it'll  be  a  couple  of 
days,  so  keep  a  good  watch." 

Then  taking  our  man  Lawson,  with  blankets  and  a 
knapsack  of  food,  Stewart  rode  off  down  the  canon. 

We  were  early  on  the  march.  As  we  proceeded 
the  canon  lost  its  regularity  and  smoothness ;  it  became 
crooked  as  a  rail  fence,  narrower,  higher,  rugged  and 

in 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


broken.  Pinnacled  cliffs,  cracked  and  leaning,  men 
aced  us  from  above.  Mountains  of  ruined  wall  had 
tumbled  into  fragments. 

It  seemed  that  Jones,  after  much  survey  of  different 
corners,  angles  and  points  in  the  canon  floor,  chose 
his  position  with  much  greater  care  than  appeared 
necessary  for  the  ultimate  success  of  our  venture — 
which  was  simply  to  see  the  White  Mustang,  and  if 
good  fortune  attended  us,  to  snap  some  photographs 
of  this  wild  king  of  horses.  It  flashed  over  me  that, 
with  his  ruling  passion  strong  within  him,  our  leader 
was  laying  some  kind  of  trap  for  that  mustang,  was 
indeed  bent  on  his  capture. 

Wallace,  Frank  and  Jim  were  stationed  at  a  point 
below  the  break  where  Stewart  had  evidently  gone  up 
and  out.  How  a  horse  could  have  climbed  that 
streaky  white  slide  was  a  mystery.  Jones's  instruc 
tions  to  the  men  were  to  wait  until  the  mustangs  were 
close  upon  them,  and  then  yell  and  shout  and  show 
themselves. 

He  took  me  to  a  jutting  corner  of  cliff,  which  hid 
us  from  the  others,  and  here  he  exercised  still  more 
care  in  scrutinizing  the  lay  of  the  ground.  A  wash 
from  ten  to  fifteen  feet  wide,  and  as  deep,  ran  through 
the  canon  in  a  somewhat  meandering  course.  At  the 
corner  which  consumed  so  much  of  his  attention,  the 
dry  ditch  ran  along  the  cliff  wall  about  fifty  feet  out; 

112 


The  White  Mustang 


between  it  and  the  wall  was  good  level  ground;  on 
the  other  side  huge  rocks  and  shale  made  it  hum- 
mocky,  practically  impassable  for  a  horse.  It  was 
plain  the  mustangs,  on  their  way  up,  would  choose 
the  inside  of  the  wash;  and  here  in  the  middle  of  the 
passage,  just  round  the  jutting  corner,  Jones  tied  our 
horses  to  good,  strong  bushes.  His  next  act  was 
significant.  He  threw  out  his  lasso  and,  dragging 
every  crook  out  of  it,  carefully  recoiled  it,  and  hung 
it  loose  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 

"  The  White  Mustang  may  be  yours  before  dark," 
he  said  with  the  smile  that  came  so  seldom.  "  Now 
I  placed  our  horses  there  for  two  reasons.  The  mus 
tangs  won't  see  them  till  they're  right  on  them.  Then 
you'll  see  a  sight  and  have  a  chance  for  a  great  pic 
ture.  They  will  halt;  the  stallion  will  prance,  whistle 
and  snort  for  a  fight,  and  then  they'll  see  the  saddles 
and  be  off.  We'll  hide  across  the  wash,  down  a  little 
way,  and  at  the  right  time  we'll  shout  and  yell  to 
drive  them  up." 

By  piling  sagebrush  round  a  stone,  we  made  a 
hiding-place.  Jones  was  extremely  cautious  to 
arrange  the  bunches  in  natural  positions.  "  A  Rocky 
Mountain  Big  Horn  is  the  only  four-footed  beast," 
he  said,  "  that  has  a  better  eye  than  a  wild  horse. 
A  cougar  has  an  eye,  too ;  he's  used  to  lying  high  up 
on  the  cliffs  and  looking  down  for  his  quarry  so  as  to 

113 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


stalk  it  at  night;  but  even  a  cougar  has  to  take  second 
to  a  mustang  when  it  comes  to  sight." 

The  hours  passed  slowly.  The  sun  baked  us ;  the 
stones  were  too  hot  to  touch ;  flies  buzzed  behind  our 
ears;  tarantulas  peeped  at  us  from  holes.  The  after 
noon  slowly  waned. 

At  dark  we  returned  to  where  we  had  left  Wallace 
and  the  cowboys.  Frank  had  solved  the  problem  of 
water  supply,  for  he  had  found  a  little  spring  trickling 
from  a  cliff,  which,  by  skillful  management,  produced 
enough  drink  for  the  horses.  We  had  packed  our 
water  for  camp  use. 

"  You  take  the  first  watch  to-night,"  said  Jones 
to  me  after  supper.  "  The  mustangs  might  try  to 
slip  by  our  fire  in  the  night  and  we  must  keep  a  watch 
for  them.  Call  Wallace  when  your  time's  up.  Now, 
fellows,  roll  in." 

When  the  pink  of  dawn  was  shading  white,  we 
were  at  our  posts.  A  long,  hot  day — interminably 
long,  deadening  to  the  keenest  interest — passed,  and 
still  no  mustangs  came.  We  slept  and  watched  again, 
in  the  grateful  cool  of  night,  till  the  third  day  broke. 

The  hours  passed;  the  cool  breeze  changed  to  hot; 
the  sun  blazed  over  the  canon  wall;  the  stones 
scorched;  the  flies  buzzed.  I  fell  asleep  in  the  scant 
shade  of  the  sage  bushes  and  awoke,  stifled  and  moist. 
The  old  plainsman,  never  weary,  leaned  with  his  back 

114 


The  White  Mustang 


against  a  stone  and  watched,  with  narrow  gaze,  the 
canon  below.  The  steely  walls  hurt  my  eyes ;  the  sky 
was  like  hot  copper.  Though  nearly  wild  with  heat 
and  aching  bones  and  muscles  and  the  long  hours  of 
wait — wait — wait,  I  was  ashamed  to  complain,  for 
there  sat  the  old  man,  still  and  silent.  I  routed  out 
a  hairy  tarantula  from  under  a  stone  and  teased  him 
into  a  frenzy  with  my  stick,  and  tried  to  get  up  a 
fight  between  him  and  a  scallop-backed  horned-toad 
that  blinked  wonderingly  at  me.  Then  I  espied  a 
green  lizard  on  a  stone.  The  beautiful  reptile  was 
about  a  foot  in  length,  bright  green,  dotted  with 
red,  and  he  had  diamonds  for  eyes.  Nearby  a  purple 
flower  blossomed,  delicate  and  pale,  with  a'  bee  suck 
ing  at  its  golden  heart.  I  observed  then  that  the 
lizard  had  his  jewel  eyes  upon  the  bee;  he  slipped  to 
the  edge  of  the  stone,  picked  out  a  long,  red  tongue, 
and  tore  the  insect  from  its  honeyed  perch.  Here 
were  beauty,  life  and  death;  and  I  had  been  weary 
for  something  to  look  at,  to  think  about,  to  distract 
me  from  the  wearisome  wait! 

"Listen!"  broke  in  Jones's  sharp  voice.  His 
neck  was  stretched,  his  eyes  were  closed,  his  ear  was 
turned  to  the  wind. 

With  thrilling,  reawakened  eagerness,  I  strained 
my  hearing.  I  caught  a  faint  sound,  then  lost  it. 

"  Put  your  car  to  the  ground,"  said  Jones. 

115 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


I  followed  his  advice,  and  detected  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  'galloping  horses. 

'  The  mustangs  are  coming,  sure  as  you're  born !  " 
exclaimed  Jones. 

"There!  See  the  cloud  of  dust!"  cried  he  a 
minute  later. 

In  the  first  bend  of  the  canon  below,  a  splintered 
ruin  of  rock  now  lay  under  a  rolling  cloud  of  dust. 
A  white  flash  appeared,  a  line  of  bobbing  black 
objects,  and  more  dust;  then  with  a  sharp  pounding 
of  hoofs,  into  clear  vision  shot  a  dense  black  band 
of  mustangs,  and  well  in  front  swung  the  White 
King. 

u  Look!  Look!  I  never  saw  the  beat  of  that — 
never  in  my  born  days!  "  cried  Jones.  "  How  they 
move !  yet  that  white  fellow  isn't  half-stretched  out. 
Get  your  picture  before  they  pass.  You'll  never  see 
the  beat  of  that.'5 

With  long  manes  and  tails  flying,  the  mustangs 
came  on  apace  and  passed  us  in  a  trampling  roar, 
the  white  stallion  in  the  front.  Suddenly  a  shrill, 
whistling  blast,  unlike  any  sound  I  had  ever  heard, 
made  the  canon  fairly  ring.  The  white  stallion 
plunged  back,  and  his  band  closed  in  behind  him. 
He  had  seen  our  saddle  horses.  Then  trembling, 
whinnying,  and  with  arched  neck  and  high-poised 

head,  bespeaking  his  mettle,  he  advanced  a  few  paces, 

116 


The  White  Mustang 


and  again  whistled  his  shrill  note  of  defiance.  Pure 
creamy  white  he  was,  and  built  like  a  racer.  He 
pranced,  struck  his  hoofs  hard  and  cavorted;  then, 
taking  sudden  fright,  he  wheeled. 

It  was  then,  when  the  mustangs  were  pivoting, 
with  the  white  in  the  lead,  that  Jones  jumped  upon  the 
stone,  fired  his  pistol  and  roared  with  all  his  strength. 
Taking  his  cue,  I  did  likewise.  The  band  huddled 
back  again,  uncertain  and  frightened,  then  broke  up 
the  canon. 

Jones  jumped  the  ditch  with  surprising  agility, 
and  I  followed  close  at  his  heels.  When  we  reached 
our  plunging  horses,  he  shouted:  "  Mount,  and  hold 
this  passage.  Keep  close  in  by  that  big  stone  at  the 
turn  so  they  can't  run  you  down,  or  stampede  you. 
If  they  head  your  way,  scare  them  back." 

Satan  quivered,  and  when  I  mounted,  reared  and 
plunged.  I  had  to  hold  him  in  hard,  for  he  was 
eager  to  run.  At  the  cliff  wall  I  was  at  some  pains 
to  check  him.  He  kept  champing  his  bit  and  stamp 
ing  his  feet. 

From  my  post  I  could  see  the  mustangs  flying 
before  a  cloud  of  dust.  Jones  was  turning  in  his 
horse  behind  a  large  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  canon, 
where  he  evidently  intended  to  hide.  Presently  suc 
cessive  yells  and  shots  from  our  comrades  blended  in 
a  roar  which  the  narrow  box-canon  augmented  and 

117 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


echoed  from  wall  to  wall.  High  the  White  Mus 
tang  reared,  and  above  the  roar  whistled  his  snort 
of  furious  terror.  His  band  wheeled  with  him  and 
charged  back,  their  hoofs  ringing  like  hammers  on 
iron. 

The  crafty  old  buffalo-hunter  had  hemmed  the 
mustangs  in  a  circle  and  had  left  himself  free  in 
the  center.  It  was  a  wily  trick,  born  of  his  quick 
mind  and  experienced  eye. 

The  stallion,  closely  crowded  by  his  followers, 
moved  swiftly.  I  saw  that  he  must  pass  near  the 
stone.  Thundering,  crashing,  the  horses  came  on. 
Away  beyond  them  I  saw  Frank  and  Wallace.  Then 
Jones  yelled  to  me :  u  Open  up !  open  up !  " 

I  turned  Satan  into  the  middle  of  the  narrow  pas 
sage,  screaming  at  the  top  of  my  voice  and  discharg 
ing  my  revolver  rapidly. 

But  the  wild  horses  thundered  on.  Jor^s  saw 
that  they  would  not  now  be  balked,  and  he  spurred 
his  bay  directly  in  their  path.  The  big  horse,  coura 
geous  as  his  intrepid  master,  dove  forward. 

Then  followed  confusion  for  me.  The  pound  of 
hoofs,  the  snorts,  a  screaming  neigh  that  was  fright 
ful,  the  mad  stampede  of  the  mustangs  with  a  whir 
ling  cloud  of  dust,  bewildered  and  frightened  me  so 
that  I  lost  sight  of  Jones.  Danger  threatened  and 
passed  me  almost  before  I  was  aware  of  it.  Out  of 

118 


The  White  Mustang 


the  dust  a  mass  of  tossing  manes,  foam-flecked  black 
horses,  wild  eyes  and  lifting  hoofs  rushed  at  me. 
Satan,  with  a  presence  of  mind  that  shamed  mine, 
leaped  back  and  hugged  the  wall.  My  eyes  were 
blinded  by  dust;  the  smell  of  dust  choked  me.  I  felt 
a  strong  rush  of  wind  and  a  mustang  grazed  my 
stirrup.  Then  they  had  passed,  on  the  wings  of  the 
dust-laden  breeze. 

But  not  all,  for  I  saw  that  Jones  had,  in  some  inex 
plicable  manner,  cut  the  White  Mustang  and  two  of 
his  blacks  out  of  the  band.  He  had  turned  them  back 
again  and  was  pursuing  them.  The  bay  he  rode 
had  never  before  appeared  to  much  advantage,  and 
now,  with  his  long,  lean,  powerful  body  in  splendid 
action,  imbred  with  the  relentless  will  of  his  rider, 
:  a  picture  he  presented !  How  he  did  run ! 
With  all  that,  the  White  Mustang  made  him  look 
dingy  and  slow.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  critical  time 
in  the  wild  career  of  that  king  of  horses.  He  had 
been  penned  in  a  space  two  hundred  by  five  hundred 
yards,  half  of  which  was  separated  from  him  by  a 
wide  ditch,  a  yawning  chasm  that  he  had  refused; 
and  behind  him,  always  keeping  on  the  inside, 
wheeled  the  yelling  hunter,  who  savagely  spurred  his 
bay  and  whirled  a  deadly  lasso.  He  had  been  cut 
off  and  surrounded ;  the  very  nature  of  the  rocks  and 
trails  of  the  canon  threatened  to  end  his  freedom  or 

119 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


his  life.  Certain  it  was  he  preferred  to  end  the 
latter,  for  he  risked  death  from  the  rocks  as  he  went 
over  them  in  long  leaps. 

Jones  could  have  roped  either  of  the  two  blacks, 
but  he  hardly  noticed  them.  Covered  with  dust  and 
splotches  of  foam,  they  took  their  advantage,  turned 
on  the  circle  toward  the  passage  way  and  galloped 
by  me  out  of  sight.  Again  Wallace,  Frank  and  Jim 
let  out  strings  of  yells  and  volleys.  The  chase  was 
narrowing  down.  Trapped,  the  White  Mustang 
King  had  no  chance.  What  a  grand  spirit  he 
showed!  Frenzied  as  I  was  with  excitement,  the 
thought  occurred  to  me  that  this  was  an  unfair  battle, 
that  I  ought  to  stand  aside  and  let  him  pass.  But 
the  blood  and  lust  of  primitive  instinct  held  me  fact. 
Jones,  keeping  back,  met  his  every  turn.  Yet  always 
with  lithe  and  beautiful  stride  the  stallion  kept  out 
of  reach  of  the  whirling  lariat. 

"  Close  in !  "  yelled  Jones,  and  his  voice,  powerful 
with  a  note  of  triumph,  bespoke  the  knell  of  the 
king's  freedom. 

The  trap  closed  in.  Back  and  forth  at  the  upper 
end  the  White  Mustang  worked;  then  rendered 
desperate  by  the  closing  in,  he  circled  round  nearer 
to  me.  Fire  shone  in  his  wild  eyes.  The  wily  Jones 
was  not  to  be  outwitted;  he  kept  in  the  middle, 

always  on  the  move,  and  he  yelled  to  me  to  open  up. 

120 


The  White  Mustang 


I  lost  my  voice  again,  and  fired  my  last  shot.  Then 
the  White  Mustang  burst  into  a  dash  of  daring, 
despairing  speed.  It  was  his  last  magnificent  effort. 
Straight  for  the  wash  at  the  upper  end  he  pointed 
his  racy,  spirited  head,  and  his  white  legs  stretched 
far  apart,  twinkled  and  stretched  again.  Jones  gal 
loped  to  cut  him  off,  and  the  yells  he  emitted  were 
demoniacal.  It  was  a  long,  straight  race  for  the 
mustang,  a  short  curve  for  the  bay. 

That  the  white  stallion  gained  was  as  sure  as  his 
resolve  to  elude  capture,  and  he  never  swerved  a 
foot  from  his  course.  Jones  might  have  headed  him, 
but  manifestly  he  wanted  to  ride  with  him,  as  well  as 
to  meet  him,  so  in  case  the  lasso  went  true,  a  terrible 
shock  might  be  averted. 

Up  went  Jones's  arm  as  the  space  shortened,  and 
the  lasso  ringed  his  head.  Out  it  shot,  lengthened 
like  a  yellow,  striking  snake,  and  fell  just  short  of 
the  flying  white  tail. 

The  White  Mustang,  fulfilling  his  purpose  in  a 
last  heroic  display  of  power,  sailed  into  the  air,  up 
and  up,  and  over  the  wide  wash  like  a  white  streak. 
Free !  the  dust  rolled  in  a  cloud  from  under  his  hoofs, 
and  he  vanished. 

Jones's  superb  horse,  crashing  down  on  his 
haunches,  just  escaped  sliding  into  the  hole. 

I  awoke  to  the  realization  that  Satan  had  carried 
121 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


me,  in  pursuit  of  the  thrilling  chase,  all  the  way 
across  the  circle  without  my  knowing  it. 

Jones  calmly  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face,  calmly 
coiled  his  lasso,  and  calmly  remarked : 

"  In  trying  to  capture  wild  animals  a  man  must 
never  be  too  sure.  Now  what  I  thought  my  strong 
point  was  my  weak  point — the  wash.  I  made  sure 
no  horse  could  ever  jump  that  hole." 


122 


CHAPTER    VII 

SNAKE  GULCH 

NOT  far  from  the  scene  of  our  adventures 
with  the  White  Streak,  as  we  facetiously 
and  appreciatively  named  the  mustang,  a 
deep,  flat  cave  indented  the  canon  wall.  By  reason  of 
its  sandy  floor  and  close  proximity  to  Frank's  tric 
kling  spring,  we  decided  to  camp  in  it.  About  dark, 
Lawson  and  Stewart  straggled  in  on  spent  horses, 
and  found  awaiting  them  a  bright  fire,  a  hot  supper 
anj  cheery  comrades. 

"  Did  yu  fellars  git  to  see  him?"  was  the  tall 
ranger's  first  question. 

"  Did  we  get  to  see  him?  "  echoed  five  lusty  voices 
is  one.  "We  did!" 

It  was  after  Frank,  in  his  plain,  blunt  speech,  had 
old  of  our  experience,  that  the  long  Arizonian  gazed 
ixedly  at  Jones. 

"  Did  yu  acktully  tech  the  hair  of  thet  mustang 
with  a  rope?  " 

In  all  his  days  Jones  never  had  a  greater  compli- 
nent.  By  way  of  reply,  he  moved  his  big  hand  to  a 
button  of  his  coat,  and,  fumbline*  over  it. 

123 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


a  string  of  long,  white  hairs,  then  said:  "I  pulled 
these  out  of  his  tail  with  my  lasso;  it  missed  his  left 
hind  hoof  about  six  inches." 

There  were  six  of  the  hairs,  pure,  glistening  white, 
and  over  three  feet  long.  Stewart  examined  them 
in  expressive  silence,  then  passed  them  along;  and 
when  they  reached  me,  they  stayed. 

The  cave,  lighted  up  by  a  blazing  fire,  appeared  to 
me  a  forbidding,  uncanny  place.  Small,  peculiar 
round  holes,  and  dark  cracks,  suggestive  of  hidden 
vermin,  gave  me  a  creepy  feeling;  and  although  not 
over-sensitive  on  the  subject  of  crawling,  creeping 
things,  I  voiced  my  disgust. 

"  Say,  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  sleeping  in  this  hole. 
I'll  bet  it's  full  of  spiders,  snakes  and  centipedes  and 
other  poisonous  things." 

Whatever  there  was  in  my  inoffensive  declaration 
to  rouse  the  usually  slumbering  humor  of  the  Ari- 
zonians,  and  the  thinly  veiled  ridicule  of  Colonel 
Jones,  and  a  mixture  of  both  in  my  once  loyal  Cali 
fornia  friend,  I  am  not  prepared  to  state.  Maybe 
it  was  the  dry,  sweet,  cool  air  of  Nail  Canon ;  maybe 
my  suggestion  awoke  ticklish  associations  that  worked 
themselves  off  thus;  maybe  it  was  the  first  instance 
of  my  committing  myself  to  a  breach  of  camp 
'^uette.  Be  that  as  it  may,  my  innocently  expressed 
*•  £ave  rise  to  bewildering  dissertations  on 

124 


Snake  Gulch 


entomology,  and  most  remarkable  and  startling  tales 
from  first-hand  experience. 

"  Like  as  not,"  began  Frank  in  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"  Them's  tarantuler  holes  all  right.  An'  scorpions, 
centipedes  an'  rattlers  always  rustle  with  tarantulers. 
But  we  never  mind  them — not  us  fellers!  We're 
used  to  sleepin'  with  them.  Why,  I  often  wake  up 
in  the  night  to  see  a  big  tarantuler  on  my  chest,  an' 
see  him  wink.  Ain't  thet  so,  Jim?  " 

"  Shore  as  hell,"  drawled  faithful,  slow  Jim. 

"  Reminds  me  how  fatal  the  bite  of  a  centipede 
is,"  took  up  Colonel  Jones,  complacently.  "  Once  I 
was  sitting  in  camp  with  a  hunter,  who  suddenly 
hissed  out :  '  Jones,  for  God's  sake  don't  budge ! 
There's  a  centipede  on  your  arm ! '  He  pulled  his 
Colt,  and  shot  the  blamed  centipede  off  as  clean  as 
a  whistle.  But  the  bullet  hit  a  steer  in  the  leg;  and 
would  you  believe  it,  the  bullet  carried  so  much 
poison  that  in  less  than  two  hours  the  steer  died  of 
blood  poisoning.  Centipedes  are  so  poisonous  they 
leave  a  blue  trail  on  flesh  just  by  crawling  over  it. 
Look  there  1  " 

He  bared  his  arm,  and  there  on  the  brown-corded 
flesh  was  a  blue  trail  of  something,  that  was  certain. 
It  might  have  been  made  by  a  centipede. 

"  This  is  a  likely  place  for  them,"  put  in  Wallace, 
emitting  a  volume  of  smoke  and  gazing  round  the 

125 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


cave  walls  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  "  My 
archaeological  pursuits  have  given  me  great  experi 
ence  with  centipedes,  as  you  may  imagine,  considering 
how  many  old  tombs,  caves  and  cliff-dwellings  I  have 
explored.  This  Algonkian  rock  is  about  the  right 
stratum  for  centipedes  to  dig  in.  They  dig  somewhat 
after  the  manner  of  the  fluviatile  long-tailed  decapod 
crustaceans,  of  the  genera  Thoracostraca,  the  com 
mon  crawfish,  you  know.  From  that,  of  course,  you 
can  imagine,  if  a  centipede  can  bite  rock,  what  a 
biter  he  is." 

I  began  to  grow  weak,  and  did  not  wonder  to  see 
Jim's  long  pipe  fall  from  his  lips.  Frank  looked 
queer  around  the  gills,  so  to  speak,  but  the  gaunt 
Stewart  never  batted  an  eye. 

"  I  camped  here  two  years  ago,"  he  said,  "  an' 
the  cave  was  alive  with  rock-rats,  mice,  snakes, 
horned-toads,  lizards  an'  a  big  Gila  monster,  besides 
bugs,  scorpions,  rattlers,  an'  as  fer  tarantulers  an' 
centipedes — say!  I  couldn't  sleep  fer  the  noise  they 
made  fightin'." 

"  I  seen  the  same,"  concluded  Lawson,  as  noncha 
lant  as  a  wild-horse  wrangler  well  could  be.  "  An' 
as  fer  me,  now  I  allus  lays  perfickly  still  when  the 
centipedes  an'  tarantulers  begin  to  drop  from  their 
holes  in  the  roof,  same  as  them  holes  up  there.  An' 
when  they  light  on  me,  I  never  move,  nor  even 

126 


Snake  Gulch 


breathe  fer  about  five  minutes.  Then  they  take  a 
notion  I'm  dead  an'  crawl  off.  But  sure,  if  I'd 
breathed  I'd  been  a  goner !  " 

All  of  this  was  playfully  intended  for  the  extinc 
tion  of  an  unoffending  and  impressionable  tenderfoot. 

With  an  admiring  glance  at  my  tormentors,  I 
rolled  out  my  sleeping-bag  and  crawled  into  it,  vow 
ing  I  would  remain  there  even  if  devil-fish,  armed 
with  pikes,  invaded  our  cave. 

Late  in  the  night  I  awoke.  The  bottom  of  the 
canon  and  the  outer  floor  of  our  cave  lay  bathed  in 
white,  clear  moonlight.  A  dense,  gloomy  black 
shadow  veiled  the  opposite  canon  wall.  High  up 
the  pinnacles  and  turrets  pointed  toward  a  resplen 
dent  moon.  It  was  a  weird,  wonderful  scene  of 
beauty  entrancing,  of  breathless,  dreaming  silence 
that  seemed  not  of  life.  Then  a  hoot-owl  lamented 
dismally,  his  call  fitting  the  scene  and  the  dead  still 
ness  ;  the  echoes  resounded  from  cliff  to  cliff,  strangely 
mocking  and  hollow,  at  last  reverberating  low  and 
mournful  in  the  distance. 

How  long  I  lay  there  enraptured  with  the  beauty 
of  light  and  mystery  of  shade,  thrilling  at  the  lone 
some  lament  of  the  owl,  I  have  no  means  to  tell ;  but 
I  was  awakened  from  my  trance  by  the  touch  of 
something  crawling  over  me.  Promptly  I  raised  my 
head.  The  cave  was  as  light  as  day.  There,  sitting 

127 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


sociably  dn  my  sleeping-bag  was  a  great  black  taran 
tula,  as  large  as  my  hand. 

For  one  still  moment,  notwithstanding  my  con 
tempt  for  Lawson's  advice,  I  certainly  acted  upon  it 
to  the  letter.  If  ever  I  was  quiet,  and  if  ever  I  was 
cold,  the  time  was  then.  My  companions  snored  in 
blissful  ignorance  of  my  plight.  Slight  rustling 
sounds  attracted  my  wary  gaze  from  the  old  black 
sentinel  on  my  knee.  I  saw  other  black  spiders  run 
ning  to  and  fro  on  the  silver,  sandy  floor.  A  giant, 
as  large  as  a  soft-shell  crab,  seemed  to  be  meditating 
an  assault  upon  Jones's  ear.  Another,  grizzled  and 
shiny  with  age  or  moonbeams — I  could  not  tell  which 
— pushed  long,  tentative  feelers  into  Wallace's  cap. 
I  saw  black  spots  darting  over  the  roof.  It  was  not 
a  dream ;  the  cave  was  alive  with  tarantulas ! 

Not  improbably  my  strong  impre.  #n  that  the 
spider  on  my  knee  deliberately  winked  at  me  .was  the 
result  of  memory,  enlivening  imagination.  n<But  it 
sufficed  to  bring  to  mind,  in  one  rapid,  consoling 
flash,  the  irrevocable  law  of  destiny — that  the  deeds 
of  the  wicked  return  unto  them  again. 

I  slipped  back  into  my  sleeping-bag,  with  a  keen 
consciousness  of  its  nature,  and  carefully  pulled  the 
flap  in  place,  which  almost  hermetically  sealed  me  up. 

"  Hey !  Jones !  Wallace !  Frank !  Jim !  "  I  yelled, 
from  the  depths  of  my  safe  refuge. 

128 


Snake  Gulch 


Wondering  cries  gave  me  glad  assurance  that  they 
had  awakened  from  their  dreams. 

"  The  cave's  alive  with  tarantulas!  "  I  cried,  try 
ing  to  hide  my  unholy  glee. 

"  I'll  be  durned  if  it  ain't!  "  ejaculated  Frank. 

"  Shore  it  beats  hell!  "  added  Jim,  with  a  shake 
of  his  blanket. 

"  Look  out,  Jones,  there's  one  on  your  pillow!  " 
shouted  Wallace. 

Whack !  A  sharp  blow  proclaimed  the  opening  of 
hostilities. 

Memory  stamped  indelibly  every  word  of  that 
incident;  but  innate  delicacy  prevents  the  repetition 
of  all  save  the  old  warrior's  concluding  remarks : 

"  !  !  ! place  I  was  ever  in!    Tarantulas  by  the 

million — centipedes,  scorpions,  bats!     Rattlesnakes, 
too,  I'll  s\      r.     Look  out,  Wallace!  there,  under 
.  oin  hlanket !  " 

Kroa  the  shuffling  sounds  which  wafted  sweetly 
into  my  bed,  I  gathered  that  my  long  friend  from 
California  must  have  gone  through  motions  credit 
able  to  a  contortionist.  An  ensuing  explosion  from 
Jones  proclaimed  to  the  listening  world  that  Wallace 
had  thrown  a  tarantula  upon  him.  Further  fearful 
language  suggested  the  thought  that  Colonel  Jones 
had  passed  on  the  inquisitive  spider  to  Frank.  The 
reception  accorded  the  unfortunate  tarantula,  no 

129 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


doubt  scared  out  of  its  wits,  began  with  a  wild  yell 
from  Frank  and  ended  in  pandemonium. 

While  the  confusion  kept  up,  with  whacks  and 
blows  and  threshing  about,  with  language  such  as 
never  before  had  disgraced  a  group  of  old  campers, 
I  choked  with  rapture,  and  reveled  in  the  sweetness 
of  revenge. 

When  quiet  reigned  once  more  in  the  black  and 
white  canon,  only  one  sleeper  lay  on  the  moon- 
silvered  sand  of  the  cave. 

At  dawn,  when  I  opened  sleepy  eyes,  Frank,  Jim, 
Stewart  and  Lawson  had  departed,  as  pre-arranged, 
with  the  outfit,  leaving  the  horses  belonging  to  us 
and  rations  for  the  day.  Wallace  and  I  wanted  to 
climb  the  divide  at  the  break,  and  go  home  by  way 
of  Snake  Gulch,  and  the  Colonel  acquiesced  with  the 
remark  that  his  sixty-three  years  had  taught  him 
there  was  much  to  see  in  the  world.  Coming  to 
undertake  it,  we  found  the  climb — except  for  a  slide 
of  weathered  rock — no  great  task,  and  we  accom 
plished  it  in  half  an  hour,  with  breath  to  spare  and 
no  mishap  to  horses. 

But  descending  into  Snake  Gulch,  which  was  only 
a  mile  across  the  sparsely 'cedared  ridge,  proved  to  be 
tedious  labor.  By  virtue  of  Satan's  patience  and 
skill,  I  forged  ahead;  which  advantage,  however, 
meant  more  risk  for  me  because  of  the  stones  set  in 

130 


Snake  Gulch 


motion  above.  They  rolled  and  bumped  and  cut  into 
me,  and  I  sustained  many  a  bruise  trying  to  protect 
the  sinewy  slender  legs  of  my  horse.  The  descent 
ended  without  serious  mishap. 

Snake  Gulch  had  a  character  and  sublimity  which 
cast  Nail  Canon  into  the  obscurity  of  forgetfulness. 
The  great  contrast  lay  in  the  diversity  of  structure. 
The  rock  was  bright  red,  with  parapet  of  yellow,  that 
leaned,  heaved,  bulged  outward.  These  emblazoned 
cliff  walls,  two  thousand  feet  high,  were  cracked 
from  turret  to  base ;  they  bowled  out  at  such  an  angle 
that  we  were  afraid  to  ride  under  them.  Mountains 
of  yellow  rock  hung  balanced,  ready  to  tumble  down 
at  the  first  angry  breath  of  the  gods.  We  rode 
among  carved  stones,  pillars,  obelisks  and  sculptured 
ruined  walls  of  a  fallen  Babylon.  Slides  reaching  all 
the  way  across  and  far  up  the  canon  wall  obstructed 
our  passage.  On  every  stone  silent  green  lizards 
sunned  themselves,  gliding  swiftly  as  we  came  near 
to  their  marble  homes. 

We  came  into  a  region  of  wind-worn  caves,  of  all 
sizes  and  shapes,  high  and  low  on  the  cliffs;  but 
strange  to  say,  only  on  the  north  side  of  the  canon 
they  appeared  with  dark  mouths  open  and  uninviting. 
One,  vast  and  deep,  though  far  off,  menaced  us  as 
might  the  cave  of  a  tawny-maned  king  of  beasts;  yet 
it  impelled,  fascinated  and  drew  us  on. 

131 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  It's  a  long,  hard  climb,"  said  Wallace  to  the 
Colonel,  as  we  dismounted. 

"  Boys,  I'm  with  you,"  came  the  reply.  And  he 
was  with  us  all  the  way,  as  we  clambered  over  the 
immense  blocks  and  threaded  a  passage  between  them 
and  pulled  weary  legs  up,  one  after  the  other.  So 
steep  lay  the  jumble  of  cliff  fragments  that  we  lost 
sight  of  the  cave  long  before  we  got  near  it.  Sud 
denly  we  rounded  a  stone,  to  halt  and  gasp  at  the 
thing  looming  before  us. 

The  dark  portal  of  death  or  hell  might  have 
yawned  there.  A  gloomy  hole,  large  enough  to 
admit  a  church,  had  been  hollowed  in  the  cliff  by 
ages  of  nature's  chiseling. 

'  Vast  sepulcher  of  Time's  past,  give  up  thy 
dead !  "  cried  Wallace,  solemnly. 

"Oh!  dark  Stygian  cave  forlorn!"  quoted  I,  as 
feelingly  as  my  friend. 

Jones  hauled  us  down  from  the  clouds. 

"  Now,  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  prehistoric  animal 
holed  in  here,"  said  he. 

Forever  the  one  absorbing  interest !  If  he  realized 
the  sublimity  of  this  place,  he  did  not  show  it. 

The  floor  of  the  cave  ascended  from  the  very 
threshold.  Stony  ridges  circled  from  wall  to  wall. 
We  climbed  till  we  were  two  hundred  feet  from  the 
opening,  yet  we  were  not  half-way  to  the  dome. 

132 


The  yawning  mouth  of  Echo  Cave. 


Snake  Gulch 


Our  horses,  browsing  in  the  sage  far  below,  looked 
like  ants.  So  steep  did  the  ascent  become  that  we 
desisted;  for  if  one  of  us  had  slipped  on  the  smooth 
incline,  the  result  would  have  been  terrible.  Our 
voices  rang  clear  and  hollow  from  the  walls.  We 
were  so  high  that  the  sky  was  blotted  out  by  the 
overhanging  square,  cornice-like  top  of  the  door; 
and  the  light  was  weird,  dim,  shadowy,  opaque.  It 
was  a  gray  tomb. 

"  Waa-hoo !  "  yelled  Jones  with  all  the  power  of 
his  wide,  leather  lungs. 

Thousands  of  devilish  voices  rushed  at  us,  seem 
ingly  on  puffs  of  wind.  Mocking,  deep  echoes  bel 
lowed  from  the  ebon  shades  at  the  back  of  the  cave, 
and  the  walls,  taking  them  up,  hurled  them  on  again 
in  fiendish  concatenation. 

We  did  not  again  break  the  silence  of  that  tomb, 
where  the  spirits  of  ages  lay  in  dusty  shrouds;  and 
we  crawled  down  as  if  we  had  invaded  a  sanctuary 
and  invoked  the  wrath  of  the  gods. 

We  all  proposed  names:  Montezuma's  Amphithe 
ater  being  the  only  rival  of  Jones's  selection,  Echo 
Cave,  which  we  finally  chose. 

Mounting  our  horses  again,  we  made  twenty  miles 
of  Snake  Gulch  by  noon,  when  we  rested  for  lunch. 
All  the  way  up  we  had  played  the  boy's  game  of  spy 
ing  for  sights,  with  the  honors  about  even.  It  was  a 

133 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


question  if  Snake  Gulch  ever  before  had  such  a  raking 
over.  Despite  its  name,  however,  we  discovered  no 
snakes. 

From  the  sandy  niche  of  a  cliff  where  we  lunched 
Wallace  espied  a  tomb,  and  heralded  his  discovery 
with  a  victorious  whoop.  Digging  in  old  ruins 
roused  in  him  much  the  same  spirit  that  digging  in 
old  books  roused  in  me.  Before  we  reached  him,  he 
had  a  big  bowie-knife  buried  deep  in  the  red,  sandy 
floor  of  the  tomb. 

This  one-time  sealed  house  of  the  dead  had  been 
constructed  of  small  stones,  held  together  by  a 
cement,  the  nature  of  which,  Wallace  explained,  had 
never  become  clear  to  civilization.  It  was  red  in 
color  and  hard  as  flint,  harder  than  the  rocks  it 
glued  together.  The  tomb  was  half-round  in  shape, 
and  its  floor  was  a  projecting  shelf  of  cliff  rock. 
Wallace  unearthed  bits  of  pottery,  bone  and  finely 
braided  rope,  all  of  which,  to  our  great  disappoint 
ment,  crumbled  to  dust  in  our  fingers.  In  the  case 
of  the  rope,  Wallace  assured  us,  this  was  a  sign  of 
remarkable  antiquity. 

In  the  next  mile  we  traversed,  we  found  dozens  of 
these  old  cells,  all  demolished  except  a  few  feet  of  the 
walls,  all  despoiled  of  their  one-time  possessions. 
Wallace  thought  these  depredations  were  due  to 
Indians  of  our  own  time.  Suddenly  we  came  upon 

134 


The  art  of  a  prehistoric  race. 


Snake  Gulch 


Jones,  standing  under  a  cliff,  with  his  neck  craned  to 
a  desperate  angle. 

"Now,  what's  that?"  demanded  he,  pointing 
upward. 

High  on  the  cliff  wall  appeared  a  small,  round 
protuberance.  It  was  of  the  unmistakably  red  color 
of  the  other  tombs;  and  Wallace,  more  excited  than 
he  had  been  in  the  cougar  chase,  said  it  was  a  sepul- 
cher,  and  he  believed  it  had  never  been  opened. 

From  an  elevated  point  of  rock,  as  high  up  as  I 
could  well  climb,  I  decided  both  questions  with  my 
glass.  The  tomb  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a 
mud-wasp's  nest,  high  on  a  barn  wall.  The  fact 
that  it  had  never  been  broken  open  quite  carried 
Wallace  away  with  enthusiasm. 

"  This  is  no  mean  discovery,  let  me  tell  you  that," 
he  declared.  "  I  am  familiar  with  the  Aztec,  Toltec 
and  Pueblo  ruins,  and  here  I  find  no  similarity.  Be 
sides,  we  are  out  of  their  latitude.  An  ancient  race 
of  people — very  ancient  indeed — lived  in  this  canon. 
How  long  ago,  it  is  impossible  to  tell." 

'*  They  must  have  been  birds,"  said  the  practical 
Jones.  "Now,  how'd  that  tomb  ever  get  there? 
Look  at  it,  will  you?  " 

As  near  as  we  could  ascertain,  it  was  three  hundred 
feet  from  the  ground  below,  five  hundred  from  the 
rim  wall  above,  and  could  not  possibly  have  been 

135 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


approached  from  the  top.     Moreover,  the  cliff  wall 
was  as  smooth  as  a  wall  of  human  make. 

"  There's  another  one,"  called  out  Jones. 

"  Yes,  and  I  see  another;  no  doubt  there  are  many 
of  them,"  replied  Wallace.  "  In  my  mind,  only  one 
thing  possible  accounts  for  their  position.  You 
observe  they  appear  to  be  about  level  with  each 
other.  Well,  once  the  canon  floor  ran  along  that 
line,  and  in  the  ages  gone  by  it  has  lowered,  washed 
away  by  the  rains." 

This  conception  staggered  us,  but  it  was  the  only 
one  conceivable.  No  doubt  we  all  thought  at  the 
same  time  of  the  little  rainfall  in  that  arid  section  of 
Arizona. 

"  How  many  years?  "  queried  Jones. 

"Years!  What  are  years?"  said  Wallace. 
"  Thousands  of  years,  ages  have  passed  since  the 
race  who  built  these  tombs  lived." 

Some  persuasion  was  necessary  to  drag  our  scien 
tific  friend  from  the  spot,  where  obviously  helple 
to  do  anything  else,  he  stood  and  gazed  longingly 
the  isolated  tombs.     The  canon  widened  as  we  pro 
ceeded;  and  hundreds  of  points  that  invited  inspec 
tion,    such   as    overhanging    shelves    of    rock,    dark 
fissures,  caverns  and  ruins  had  to  be  passed  by,  for 
lack  of  time. 

Still,  a  more  interesting  and  important  discovery 

130 


"The  whole  surface  of  the  cliff  wall  bore  figures  of  all  shapes. 


Snake  Gulch 


was  to  come,  and  the  pleasure  and  honor  of  it  fell 
to  me.  My  eyes  were  sharp  and  peculiarly  far- 
sighted — the  Indian  sight,  Jones  assured  me;  and  I 
kept  them  searching  the  walls  in  such  places  as  my 
companions  overlooked.  Presently,  under  a  large, 
bulging  bluff,  I  saw  a  dark  spot,  which  took  the  shape 
of  a  figure.  This  figure,  I  recollected,  had  been  pre 
sented  to  my  sight  more  than  once,  and  now  it 
stopped  me.  The  hard  climb  up  the  slippery  stones 
was  fatiguing,  but  I  did  not  hesitate,  for  I  was 
determined  to  know.  Once  upon  the  ledge,  I  let  out 
a  yell  that  quickly  set  my  companions  in  my  direction. 
The  figure  I  had  seen  was  a  dark,  red  devil,  a  painted 
image,  rude,  unspeakably  wild,  crudely  executed,  but 
painted  by  the  hand  of  man.  The  whole  surface  of 
the  cliff  wall  bore  figures  of  all  shapes — men, 
animals,  birds  and  strange  devices,  some  in  red  paint, 
mostly  in  yellow.  Some  showed  the  wear  of  time; 
others  were  clear  and  sharp. 

Wallace  puffed  up  to  me,  but  he  had  wind  enough 
left  for  another  whoop.  Jones  puffed  up  also,  and 
seeing  the  first  thing  a  rude  sketch  of  what  might 
have  been  a  deer  or  a  buffalo,  he  commented  thus: 
"  Darn  me  if  I  ever  saw  an  animal  like  that!  Boys, 
this  is  a  find,  sure  as  you're  born.  Because  not  even 
the  Piutes  ever  spoke  of  these  figures.  I  doubt  if 
they  know  they're  here.  And  the  cowboys  and 

137 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


wranglers,  what  few  ever  get  by  here  in  a  hundred 
years,  never  saw  these  things.  Beats  anything  I  ever 
saw  on  the  Mackenzie,  or  anywhere  else." 

The  meaning  of  some  devices  was  as  mystical  as 
that  of  others  was  clear.  Two  blood-red  figures  of 
men,  the  larger  dragging  the  smaller  by  the  hair, 
while  he  waved  aloft  a  blood- red  hatchet  or  club, 
left  little  to  conjecture.  Here  was  the  old  battle  of 
men,  as  old  as  life.  Another  group,  two  figures  of 
which  resembled  the  foregoing  in  form  and  action, 
battling  over  a  prostrate  form  rudely  feminine  in 
outline,  attested  to  an  age  when  men  were  as  suscep 
tible  as  they  are  in  modern  times,  but  more  forceful 
and  original.  An  odd  yellow  Indian  waved  aloft  a 
red  hand,  which  striking  picture  suggested  the 
idea  that  he  was  an  ancient  Macbeth,  listening  to 
the  knocking  at  the  gate.  There  was  a  character 
representing  a  great  chief,  before  whom  many  figures 
lay  prostrate,  evidently  slain  or  subjugated.  Large 
red  paintings,  in  the  shape  of  bats,  occupied  promi 
nent  positions,  and  must  have  represented  gods  or 
devils.  Armies  of  marching  men  told  of  that  blight 
of  nations  old  or  young — war.  These,  and  birds 
unnamable,  and  beasts  unclassable,  with  dots  and 
marks  and  hieroglyphics,  recorded  the  history  of  a 
bygone  people.  Symbols  they  were  of  an  era  that 
had  gone  into  the  dim  past,  leaving  only  these  marks, 

138 


One  figure  appeared  to  represent  a  dark  red  devil. 


Snake  Gulch 


forever  unintelligible;  yet  while  they  stood,  century 
after  century,  ineffaceable,  reminders  of  the  glory, 
the  mystery,  the  sadness  of  life. 

"  How  could  paint  of  any  kind  last  so  long?  " 
asked  Jones,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  That  is  the  unsolvable  mystery,"  returned  Wal 
lace.  "  But  the  records  are  there.  I  am  absolutely 
sure  the  paintings  are  at  least  a  thousand  years  old. 
I  have  never  seen  any  tombs  or  paintings  similar  to 
them.  Snake  Gulch  is  a  find,  and  I  shall  some  day 
study  its  wonders." 

Sundown  caught  us  within  sight  of  Oak  Spring, 
and  we  soon  trotted  into  camp  to  the  welcoming 
chorus  of  the  hounds.  Frank  and  the  others  had 
reached  the  cabin  some  hours  before.  Supper  was 
steaming  on  the  hot  coals  with  a  delicious  fragrance. 

Then  came  the  pleasantest  time  of  the  day,  after  a 
long  chase  or  jaunt — the  silent  moments,  watching 
the  glowing  embers  of  the  fire ;  the  speaking  moments 
when  a  red-blooded  story  rang  clear  and  true;  the 
twilight  moments,  when  the  wood-smoke  smelled 
sweet. 

Jones  seemed  unusually  thoughtful.  I  had  learned 
that  this  preoccupation  in  him  meant  the  stirring  of 
old  associations,  and  I  waited  silently.  By  and  by 
Lawson  snored  mildly  in  a  corner;  Jim  and  Frank 
crawled  into  their  blankets,  and  all  was  still.  Wal- 

139 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


lace  smoked  his  Indian  pipe  and  hunted  in  firelit 
dreams. 

"  Boys,"  said  our  leader  finally,  "  somehow  the 
echoes  dying  away  in  that  cave  reminded  me  of  the 
mourn  of  the  big  white  wolves  in  the  Barren  Lands." 

Wallace  puffed  huge  clouds  of  white  smoke,  and 
I  waited,  knowing  that  I  was  to  hear  at  last  the  story 
of  the  Colonel's  great  adventure  in  the  Northland. 


140 


Chap.  VII 


n*  7 
ttttttt 


"Symbols  recording  the  history  of  a  bygone  people. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

NAZA  !     NAZA  !     NAZA  ! 

IT  was  a  waiting  day  at  Fort  Chippewayan.  The 
lonesome,  far-northern  Hudson's  Bay  Trading 
Post  seldom  saw  such  life.  Tepees  dotted  the 
banks  of  the  Slave  River  and  lines  of  blanketed 
Indians  paraded  its  shores.  Near  the  boat  landing 
a  group  of  chiefs,  grotesque  in  semi-barbaric,  semi- 
civilized  splendor,  but  black-browed,  austere-eyed, 
stood  in  savage  dignity  with  folded  arms  and  high- 
held  heads.  Lounging  on  the  grassy  bank  were  white 
men,  traders,  trappers  and  officials  of  the  post. 

All  eyes  were  on  the  distant  curve  of  the  river 
where,  as  it  lost  itself  in  a  fine-fringed  bend  of  dark 
green,  white-glinting  waves  danced  and  fluttered.  A 
June  sky  lay  blue  in  the  majestic  stream;  ragged, 
spear-topped,  dense  green  trees  massed  down  to  the 
water;  beyond  rose  bold,  bald-knobbed  hills,  in 
remote  purple  relief. 

A  long  Indian  arm  stretched  south.  The  waiting 
eyes  discerned  a  black  speck  on  the  green,  and 
watched  it  grow.  A  flatboat,  with  a  man  standing 
to  the  oars,  bore  down  swiftly. 

141 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Not  a  red  hand,  nor  a  white  one,  offered  to  help 
the  voyager  in  the  difficult  landing.  The  oblong, 
clumsy,  heavily  laden  boat  surged  with  the  current 
and  passed  the  dock  despite  the  boatman's  efforts. 
He  swung  his  craft  in  below  upon  a  bar  and  roped 
it  fast  to  a  tree.  The  Indians  crowded  above  him  on 
the  bank.  The  boatman  raised  his  powerful  form 
erect,  lifted  a  bronzed  face  which  seemed  set  in 
craggy  hardness,  and  cast  from  narrow  eyes  a  keen, 
cool  glance  on  those  above.  The  silvery  gleam  in 
his  fair  hair  told  of  years. 

Silence,  impressive  as  it  was  ominous,  broke  only 
to  the  rattle  of  camping  paraphernalia,  which  the 
voyager  threw  to  a  level,  grassy  bench  on  the  bank. 
Evidently  this  unwelcome  visitor  had  journeyed  from 
afar,  and  his  boat,  sunk  deep  into  the  water  with  its 
load  of  barrels,  boxes  and  bags,  indicated  that  the 
journey  had  only  begun.  Significant,  too,  were  a  cou 
ple  of  long  Winchester  rifles  shining  on  a  tarpaulin. 

The  cold-faced  crowd  stirred  and  parted  to  permit 
the  passage  of  a  tall,  thin,  gray  personage  of  official 
bearing,  in  a  faded  military  coat. 

"Are  you  the  musk-ox  hunter?"  he  asked,  in 
tones  that  contained  no  welcome. 

The  boatman  greeted  this  peremptory  interlocutor 
with  a  cool  laugh — a  strange  laugh,  in  which  the 
muscles  of  his  face  appeared  not  to  play. 

142 


Naza!  Naza!  Naza! 


"  Yes,  I  am  the  man,"  he  said. 

"  The  chiefs  of  the  Chippewayan  and  Great  Slave 
tribes  have  been  apprised  of  your  coming.  They 
have  held  council  and  are  here  to  speak  with  you." 

At  a  motion  from  the  commandant,  the  line  of 
chieftains  piled  down  to  the  level  bench  and  formed 
a  half-circle  before  the  voyager.  To  a  man  who 
had  stood  before  grim  Sitting  Bull  and  noble  Black 
Thunder  of  the  Sioux,  and  faced  the  falcon-eyed 
Geronimo,  and  glanced  over  the  sights  of  a  rifle  at 
gorgeous-feathered,  wild,  free  Comanches,  this  semi 
circle  of  savages — lords  of  the  north — was  a  sorry 
comparison.  Bedaubed  and  betrinketed,  slouchy  and 
slovenly,  these  low-statured  chiefs  belied  in  appear 
ance  their  scorn-bright  eyes  and  lofty  mien.  They 
made  a  sad  group. 

One  who  spoke  in  unintelligible  language,  rolled 
out  a  haughty,  sonorous  voice  over  the  listening  mul 
titude.  When  he  had  finished,  a  half-breed  inter 
preter,  in  the  dress  of  a  white  man,  spoke  at  a  signal 
from  the  commandant. 

"  He  says  listen  to  the  great  orator  of  the  Chippe 
wayan.  He  has  summoned  all  the  chiefs  of  the  tribes 
south  of  Great  Slave  Lake.  He  has  held  council. 
The  cunning  of  the  pale-face,  who  comes  to  take 
the  musk-oxen,  is  well  known.  Let  the  pale-face 
hunter  return  to  his  own  hunting-grounds;  let  him 

143 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


turn  his  face  from  the  north.  Never  will  the  chiefs 
permit  the  white  man  to  take  musk-oxen  alive  from 
their  country.  The  Ageter,  the  Musk-ox,  is  their 
god.  He  gives  them  food  and  fur.  He  will  never 
come  back  if  he  is  taken  away,  and  the  reindeer  will 
follow  him.  The  chiefs  and  their  people  would 
starve.  They  command  the  pale-face  hunter  to  go 
back.  They  cry  Naza!  Naza!  Naza!  " 

"  Say,  for  a  thousand  miles  I've  heard  that  word 
Naza !  "  returned  the  hunter,  with  mingled  curi 
osity  and  disgust.  "  At  Edmonton  Indian  runners 
started  ahead  of  me,  and  every  village  I  struck  the 
redskins  would  crowd  round  me  and  an  old  chief 
would  harangue  at  me,  and  motion  me  back,  and 
point  north  with  Naza !  Naza !  Naza !  What  does 
it  mean?  " 

No  white  man  knows;  no  Indian  will  tell," 
answered  the  interpreter.  "  The  traders  think  it 
means  the  Great  Slave,  the  North  Star,  the  North 
Spirit,  the  North  Wind,  the  North  Lights  and 
Ageter,  the  musk-ox  god." 

"  Well,  say  to  the  chiefs  to  tell  Ageter  I  have  been 
four  moons  on  the  way  after  some  of  his  little 
Ageters,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  on  after  them." 

"  Hunter,  you  are  most  unwise,"  broke  in  the 
commandant,  in  his  officious  voice.  "  The  Indians 
will  never  permit  you  to  take  a  musk-ox  alive  from 

144 


Naza!  Naza!  Naza! 


the  north.  They  worship  him,  pray  to  him.  It  is 
a  wonder  you  have  not  been  stopped." 

"Who'll  stop  me?" 

"  The  Indians.  They  will  kill  you  if  you  do  not 
turn  back." 

"Faugh!  to  tell  an  American  plainsman  that!" 
The  hunter  paused  a  steady  moment,  with  his  eyelids 
narrowing  over  slits  of  blue  fire.  "  There  is  no  law 
to  keep  me  out,  nothing  but  Indian  superstition  and 
the  greed  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  people.  And  I  am  an 
old  fox,  not  to  be  fooled  by  pretty  baits.  For  years 
the  officers  of  this  fur-trading  company  have  tried 
to  keep  out  explorers.  Even  Sir  John  Franklin,  an 
Englishman,  could  not  buy  food  of  them.  The 
policy  of  the  company  is  to  side  with  the  Indians, 
to  keep  out  traders  and  trappers.  Why?  So  they 
can  keep  on  cheating  the  poor  savages  out  of  clothing 
and  food  by  trading  a  few  trinkets  and  blankets,  a 
little  tobacco  and  rum  for  millions  of  dollars  worth 
of  furs.  Have  I  failed  to  hire  man  after  man, 
Indian  after  Indian,  not  to  know  why  I  cannot  get 
a  helper?  Have  I,  a  plainsman,  come  a  thousand 
miles  alone  to  be  scared  by  you,  or  a  lot  of  craven 
Indians?  Have  I  been  dreaming  of  musk-oxen  for 
forty  years,  to  slink  south  now,  when  I  begin  to  feel 
the  north?  Not  I." 

Deliberately  every  chief,  with  the  sound  of  a  hiss- 

145 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


ing  snake,  spat  in  the  hunter's  face.  He  stood 
immovable  while  they  perpetrated  the  outrage,  then 
calmly  wiped  his  cheeks,  and  in  his  strange,  cool 
voice,  addressed  the  intrepreter. 

"  Tell  them  thus  they  show  their  true  qualities,  to 
insult  in  council.  Tell  them  they  are  not  chiefs,  but 
dogs.  Tell  them  they  are  not  even  squaws,  only 
poor,  miserable  starved  dogs.  Tell  them  I  turn  my 
back  on  them.  Tell  them  the  paleface  has  fought 
real  chiefs,  fierce,  bold,  like  eagles,  and  he  turns  his 
back  on  dogs.  Tell  them  he  is  the  one  who  could 
teach  them  to  raise  the  musk-oxen  and  the  reindeer, 
and  to  keep  out  the  cold  and  the  wolf.  But  they  are 
blinded.  Tell  them  the  hunter  goes  north." 

Through  the  council  of  chiefs  ran  a  low  mutter, 
as  of  gathering  thunder. 

True  to  his  word,  the  hunter  turned  his  back  on 
them.  As  he  brushed  by,  his  eye  caught  a  gaunt 
savage  slipping  from  the  boat.  At  the  hunter's  stern 
call,  the  Indian  leaped  ashore,  and  started  to  run. 
He  had  stolen  a  parcel,  and  would  have  succeeded  in 
eluding  its  owner  but  for  an  unforeseen  obstacle,  as 
striking  as  it  was  unexpected. 

A  white  man  of  colossal  stature  had  stepped  in 
the  thief's  passage,  and  laid  two  great  hands  on  him. 
Instantly  the  parcel  flew  from  the  Indian,  and  he 
spun  in  the  air  to  fall  into  the  river  with  a  sounding 

146 


Naza!  Naza!  Naza! 


splash.  Yells  signaled  the  surprise  and  alarm  caused 
by  this  unexpected  incident.  The  Indian  frantically 
swam  to  the  shore.  Whereupon  the  champion  of  the 
stranger  in  a  strange  land  lifted  a  bag,  which  gave 
forth  a  musical  clink  of  steel,  and  throwing  it  with 
the  camp  articles  on  the  grassy  bench,  he  extended  a 
huge,  friendly  hand. 

"  My  name  is  Rea,"  he  said,  in  deep,  cavernous 
tones. 

"  Mine  is  Jones,"  replied  the  hunter,  and  right 
quickly  did  he  grip  the  proffered  hand.  He  saw  in 
Rea  a  giant,  of  whom  he  was  but  a  stunted  shadow. 
Six  and  one-half  feet  Rea  stood,  with  yard-wide 
shoulders,  a  hulk  of  bone  and  brawn.  His  ponder 
ous,  shaggy  head  rested  on  a  bull  neck.  His  broad 
face,  with  its  low  forehead,  its  close-shut  mastiff 
under  jaw,  its  big,  opaque  eyes,  pale  and  cruel  as 
those  of  a  jaguar,  marked  him  a  man  of  terrible 
brute  force. 

"  Free-trader!  "  called  the  commandant.  "  Better 
think  twice  before  you  join  fortunes  with  the  musk-ox 
hunter." 

"  To  hell  with  you  an'  your  rantin',  dog-eared 
redskins !  "  cried  Rea.  "  I've  run  agin  a  man  of 
my  own  kind,  a  man  of  my  own  country,  an'  I'm 
goin'  with  him." 

With  this  he  thrust  aside  some  encroaching,  gaping 
147 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Indians  so  unconcernedly  and  ungently  that  they 
sprawled  upon  the  grass. 

Slowly  the  crowd  mounted  and  once  more  lined 
the  bank. 

Jones  realized  that  by  some  late-turning  stroke  of 
fortune,  he  had  fallen  in  with  one  of  the  few  free 
traders  of  the  province.  These  free-traders,  from 
the  very  nature  of  their  calling — which  was  to  defy 
the  fur  company,  and  to  trap  and  trade  on  their  own 
account — were  a  hardy  and  intrepid  class  of  men. 
Rea's  worth  to  Jones  exceeded  that  of  a  dozen  ordi 
nary  men.  He  knew  the  ways  of  the  north,  the 
language  of  the  tribes,  the  habits  of  animals,  the 
handling  of  dogs,  the  uses  of  food  and  fuel.  More 
over,  it  soon  appeared  that  he  was  a  carpenter  and 
blacksmith. 

"  There's  my  kit,"  he  said,  dumping  the  contents 
of  his  bag.  It  consisted  of  a  bunch  of  steel  traps, 
some  tools,  a  broken  ax,  a  box  of  miscellaneous  things 
such  as  trappers  used,  and  a  few  articles  of  flannel. 
"  Thievin'  redskins,"  he  added,  in  explanation  of 
his  poverty.  "  Not  much  of  an  outfit.  But  I'm  the 
man  for  you.  Besides,  I  had  a  pal  onct  who  knew 
you  on  the  plains,  called  you  '  Buff  '  Jones.  Old 
Jim  Bent  he  was." 

"  I  recollect  Jim,"  said  Jones.  "  He  went  down 
in  Custer's  last  charge.  So  you  were  Jim's  pal. 

148 


Naza!  Naza!  Naza! 


That'd  be  a  recommendation  if  you  needed  one.  But 
the  way  you  chucked  the  Indian  overboard  got  me." 

Rea  soon  manifested  himself  as  a  man  of  few 
words  and  much  action.  With  the  planks  Jones 
had  on  board  he  heightened  the  stern  and  bow  of 
the  boat  to  keep  out  the  beating  waves  in  the  rapids ; 
he  fashioned  a  steering-gear  and  a  less  awkward 
set  of  oars,  and  shifted  the  cargo  so  as  to  make  more 
room  in  the  craft. 

"  Buff,  we're  in  for  a  storm.  Set  up  a  tarpaulin 
an'  make  a  fire.  We'll  pretend  to  camp  to-night. 
These  Indians  won't  dream  we'd  try  to  run  the  river 
after  dark,  and  we'll  slip  by  under  cover." 

The  sun  glazed  over;  clouds  moved  up  from  the 
north ;  a  cold  wind  swept  the  tips  of  the  spruces,  and 
rain  commenced  to  drive  in  gusts.  By  the  time  it 
was  dark  not  an  Indian  showed  himself.  They  were 
housed  from  the  storm.  Lights  twinkled  in  the 
tepees  and  the  big  log  cabins  of  the  trading  company. 
Jones  scouted  round  till  pitchy  black  night,  when  a 
freezing,  pouring  blast  sent  him  back  to  the  protec 
tion  of  the  tarpaulin.  When  he  got  there  he  found 
that  Rea  had  taken  it  down  and  awaited  him. 
"  Off!  "  said  the  free-trader;  and  with  no  more  noise 
than  a  drifting  feather  the  boat  swung  into  the  cur 
rent  and  glided  down  till  the  twinkling  fires  no  longer 
accentuated  the  darkness. 

149 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


By  night  the  river,  in  common  with  all  swift 
rivers,  had  a  sullen  voice,  and  murmured  its  hurry, 
its  restraint,  its  menace,  its  meaning.  The  two  boat 
men,  one  at  the  steering  gear,  one  at  the  oars,  faced 
the  pelting  rain  and  watched  the  dim,  dark  line  of 
trees.  The  craft  slid  noiselessly  onward  into  the 
gloom. 

And  into  Jones's  ears,  above  the  storm,  poured 
another  sound,  a  steady,  muffled  rumble,  like  the  roll 
of  giant  chariot  wheels.  It  had  come  to  be  a  familiar 
roar  to  him,  and  the  only  thing  which,  in  his  long  life 
of  hazard,  had  ever  sent  the  cold,  prickling,  tight 
shudder  over  his  warm  skin.  Many  times  on  the 
Athabasca  that  rumble  had  presaged  the  dangerous 
and  dreaded  rapids. 

"Hell  Bend  Rapids!"  shouted  Rea.  "Bad 
water,  but  no  rocks." 

The  rumble  expanded  to  a  roar,  the  roar  to  a  boom 
that  charged  the  air  with  heaviness,  with  a  dreamy 
burr.  The  whole  indistinct  world  appeared  to  be 
moving  to  the  lash  of  wind,  to  the  sound  of  rain,  to 
the  roar  of  the  river.  The  boat  shot  down  and  sailed 
aloft,  met  shock  on  shock,  breasted  leaping  dim  white 
waves,  and  in  a  hollow,  unearthly  blend  of  watery 
sounds,  rode  on  and  on,  buffeted,  tossed,  pitched  into 
a  black  chaos  that  yet  gleamed  with  obscure  shrouds 
of  light.  Therr  the  convulsive  stream  shrieked  out 

150 


'Naza!  Naza!  Naza! 


a  last  defiance,  changed  its  course  abruptly  to  slow 
down  and  drown  the  sound  of  rapids  in  muffling 
distance.  Once  more  the  craft  swept  on  smoothly, 
to  the  drive  of  the  wind  and  the  rush  of  the  rain. 

By  midnight  the  storm  cleared.  Murky  clouds 
split  to  show  shining,  blue-white  stars  and  a  fitful 
moon,  that  silvered  the  crests  of  the  spruces  and 
sometimes  hid  like  a  gleaming,  black-threaded  pearl 
behind  the  dark  branches. 

Jones,  a  plainsman  all  his  days,  wonderingly 
watched  the  moon-blanched  water.  He  saw  it  shade 
and  darken  under  shadowy  walls  of  granite,  where 
it  swelled  with  hollow  song  and  gurgle.  He  heard 
again  the  far-off  rumble,  faint  on  the  night  wind. 
High  cliff  banks  appeared,  walled  out  the  mellow 
light,  and  the  river  suddenly  narrowed.  Yawning 
holes,  whirlpools  of  a  second,  opened  with  a  gurgling 
suck  and  raced  with  the  boat. 

On  the  craft  flew.  Far  ahead,  a  long,  declining 
plane  of  jumping  frosted  waves  played  dark  and 
white  with  the  moonbeams.  The  Slave  plunged  to 
his  freedom,  down  his  riven,  stone-spiked  bed,  know 
ing  no  patient  eddy,  and  white-wreathed  his  dark, 
shiny  rocks  in  spume  and  spray. 


151 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    LAND   OF    THE    MUSK-OX 

A7AR  cry  it  was  from  bright  June  at  Port 
Chippewayan  to  dim  October  on  Great  Slave 
Lake. 

Two  long,  laborious  months  Rea  and  Jones 
threaded  the  crooked  shores  of  the  great  inland  sea, 
to  halt  at  the  extreme  northern  end,  where  a  plunging 
outlet  formed  the  source  of  a  river.  Here  they  found 
a  stone  chimney  and  fireplace  standing  among  the 
darkened,  decayed  ruins  of  a  cabin. 

"  We  mustn't  lose  no  time,"  said  Rea.  "  I  feel 
the  winter  in  the  wind.  An'  see  how  dark  the  days 
are  gettin'  on  us." 

"  I'm  for  hunting  musk-oxen,"  replied  Jones. 

"  Man,  we're  facin'  the  northern  night;  we're  in 
the  land  of  the  midnight  sun.  Soon  we'll  be  shut 
in  for  seven  months.  A  cabin  we  want,  an'  wood, 
an'  meat." 

A  forest  of  stunted  spruce  trees  edged  on  the  lake, 
and  soon  its  dreary  solitudes  rang  to  the  strokes  of 
axes.  The  trees  were  small  and  uniform  in  size. 
Black  stumps  protruded,  here  and  there,  from  the 

152 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Ox 


ground,  showing  work  of  the  steel  in  time  gone  by. 
Jones  observed  that  the  living  trees  were  no  larger 
in  diameter  than  the  stumps,  and  questioned  Rea  in 
regard  to  the  difference  in  age. 

"  Cut  twenty-five,  mebbe  fifty  years  ago,"  said  the 
trapper. 

"  But  the  living  trees  are  no  bigger." 

"  Trees  an'  things  don't  grow  fast  in  the  north- 
land." 

They  erected  a  fifteen-foot  cabin  round  the  stone 
chimney,  roofed  it  with  poles  and  branches  of  spruce, 
and  a  layer  of  sand.  In  digging  near  the  fireplace 
Jones  unearthed  a  rusty  file  and  the  head  of  a  whisky 
keg,  upon  which  was  a  sunken  word  in  unintelligible 
letters. 

"  We've  found  the  place,"  said  Rea.  "  Franklin 
built  a  cabin  here  in  1819.  An'  in  1833  Captain 
Back  wintered  here  when  he  was  in  search  of  Captain 
Ross  of  the  vessel  Fury.  It  was  those  explorin*  parties 
thet  cut  the  trees.  I  seen  Indian  sign  out  there,  made 
last  winter,  I  reckon ;  but  Indians  never  cut  down  no 
trees." 

The  hunters  completed  the  cabin,  piled  cords  of 
firewood  outside,  stowed  away  the  kegs  of  dried  fish 
and  fruits,  the  sacks  of  flour,  boxes  of  crackers, 
canned  meats  and  vegetables,  sugar,  salt,  coffee, 
tobacco — all  of  the  cargo;  then  took  the  boat  apart 

153 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


and  carried  it  up  the  bank,  which  labor  took  them 
less  than  a  week. 

Jones  found  sleeping  in  the  cabin,  despite  the  fire, 
uncomfortably  cold,  because  of  the  wide  chinks 
between  the  logs.  It  was  hardly  better  than  sleeping 
under  the  swaying  spruces.  When  he  essayed  to  stop 
up  the  cracks — a  task  by  no  means  easy,  considering 
the  lack  of  material — Rea  laughed  his  short  "  Ho! 
Ho!"  and  stopped  him  with  the  word,  "Wait." 
Every  morning  the  green  ice  extended  farther  out 
into  the  lake;  the  sun  paled  dim  and  dimmer;  the 
nights  grew  colder.  On  October  8th  the  thermome 
ter  registered  several  degrees  below  zero;  it  fell  a 
little  more  next  night  and  continued  to  fall. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  cried  Rea.  "  She's  struck  the 
toboggan,  an*  presently  she'll  commence  to  slide. 
Come  on,  Buff,  we've  work  to  do." 

He  caught  up  a  bucket,  made  for  their  hole  in 
the  ice,  rebrokc  a  six-inch  layer,  the  freeze  of  a  few 
hours,  and  filling  his  bucket,  returned  to  the  cabin. 
Jones  had  no  inkling  of  the  trapper's  intention,  and 
wonderingly  he  soused  his  bucket  full  of  water  and 
followed. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  the  cabin,  a  matter  of 
some  thirty  or  forty  good  paces,  the  water  no  longer 
splashed  from  his  pail,  for  a  thin  film  of  ice  pre 
vented.  Rea  stood  fifteen  feet  from  the  cabin,  his 

154 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Ox 


back  to  the  wind,  and  threw  the  water.  Some  of 
it  froze  in  the  air,  most  of  it  froze  on  the  logs.  The 
simple  plan  of  the  trapper  to  incase  the  cabin  with 
ice  was  easily  divined.  All  day  the  men  worked, 
ceasing  only  when  the  cabin  resembled  a  glistening 
mound.  It  had  not  a  sharp  corner  nor  a  crevice. 
Inside  it  was  warm  and  snug,  and  as  light  as  when 
the  chinks  were  open. 

A  slight  moderation  of  the  weather  brought  the 
snow.  Such  snow !  A  blinding  white  flutter  of  great 
flakes,  as  large  as  feathers!  All  day  they  rustled 
softly;  all  night  they  swirled,  sweeping,  seeping, 
brushing  against  the  cabin.  "  Ho !  Ho !  "  roared 
Rea.  "  'Tis  good;  let  her  snow,  an'  the  reindeer 
will  migrate.  We'll  have  fresh  meat."  The  sun 
shone  again,  but  not  brightly.  A  nipping  wind  cut 
down  out  of  the  frigid  north  and  crusted  the  snow. 
The  third  night  following  the  storm,  when  the 
hunters  lay  snug  under  their  blankets,  a  commotion 
outside  aroused  them. 

"  Indians,"  said  Rea,  u  come  north  for  reindeer." 
Half  the  night,  shouting  and  yelling,  barking  of 
dogs,  hauling  of  sleds  and  cracking  of  dried-skin 
tepees  murdered  sleep  for  those  in  the  cabin.  In  the 
morning  the  level  plain  and  edge  of  the  forest  held 
an  Indian  village.  Caribou  hides,  strung  on  forked 
poles,  constituted  tent-like  habitations  with  no  dis- 

155 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


tinguishable  doors.  Fires  smoked  in  holes  in  the 
snow.  Not  till  late  in  the  day  did  any  life  manifest 
itself  round  the  tepees,  and  then  a  group  of  children, 
poorly  clad  in  ragged  pieces  of  blankets  and  skins, 
gaped  at  Jones.  He  saw  their  pinched,  brown  faces, 
staring,  hungry  eyes,  naked  legs  and  throats,  and 
noted  particularly  their  dwarfish  size.  When  he 
spoke  they  fled  precipitously  a  little  way,  then  turned. 
He  called  again,  and  all  ran  except  one  small  lad. 
Jones  went  into  the  cabin  and  came  out  with  a  hand 
ful  of  sugar  in  square  lumps. 

"  Yellow  Knife  Indians,"  said  Rea.  "  A  starved 
tribe !  We're  in  for  it." 

Jones  made  motions  to  the  lad,  but  he  remained 
still,  as  if  transfixed,  and  his  black  eyes  stared 
wonderingly. 

"  Molar  nasu  (white  man  good),"  said  Rea. 

The  lad  came  out  of  his  trance  and  looked  back 
at  his  companions,  who  edged  nearer.  Jones  ate  a 
lump  of  sugar,  then  handed  one  to  the  little  Indian. 
He  took  it  gingerly,  put  it  into  his  mouth  and  imme 
diately  jumped  up  and  down. 

u  Hoppieshampoolie !  Hoppieshampoolie !  "  he 
shouted  to  his  brothers  and  sisters.  They  came  on 
the  run. 

"  Think  he  means  sweet  salt,"  interpreted  Rea. 
"  Of  course  these  beggars  never  tasted  sugar." 

156 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Oat 


The  band  of  youngsters  trooped  round  Jones,  and 
after  tasting  the  white  lumps,  shrieked  in  such 
delight  that  the  braves  and  squaws  shuffled  out  of  the 
tepees. 

In  all  his  days  Jones  had  never  seen  such  miserable 
Indians.  Dirty  blankets  hid  all  their  person,  except 
straggling  black  hair,  hungry,  wolfish  eyes  and  moc- 
casined  feet.  They  crowded  into  the  path  before  the 
cabin  door  and  mumbled  and  stared  and  waited.  No 
dignity,  no  brightness,  no  suggestion  of  friendliness 
marked  this  peculiar  attitude. 

u  Starved !  "  exclaimed  Rea.  "  TheyVe  come  to 
the  lake  to  invoke  the  Great  Spirit  to  send  the  rein 
deer.  Buff,  whatever  you  do,  don't  feed  them.  If 
you  do,  we'll  have  them  on  our  hands  all  winter.  It's 
cruel,  but,  man,  we're  in  the  north !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  practical  trapper's  admoni 
tion  Jones  could  not  resist  the  pleading  of  the  chil 
dren.  He  could  not  stand  by  and  see  them  starve. 
After  ascertaining  there  was  absolutely  nothing  to 
eat  in  the  tepees,  he  invited  the  little  ones  into  the 
cabin,  and  made  a  great  pot  of  soup,  into  which  he 
dropped  compressed  biscuits.  The  savage  children 
were  like  wildcats.  Jones  had  to  call  in  Rea  to  assist 
him  in  keeping  the  famished  little  aborigines  from 
tearing  each  other  to  pieces.  When  finally  they  were 
all  fed,  they  had  to  be  driven  out  of  the  cabin, 

157 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  That's  new  to  me,"  said  Jones.  "  Poor  little 
beggars !  " 

Rea  doubtfully  shook  his  shaggy  head. 

Next  day  Jones  traded  with  the  Yellow  Knives. 
He  had  a  goodly  supply  of  baubles,  besides  blankets, 
gloves  and  boxes  of  canned  goods,  which  he  had 
brought  for  such  trading.  He  secured  a  dozen  of 
the  large-boned,  white  and  black  Indian  dogs — 
huskies,  Rea  called  them — two  long  sleds  with  har 
ness  and  several  pairs  of  snowshoes.  This  trade 
made  Jones  rub  his  hands  in  satisfaction,  for  during 
all  the  long  journey  north  he  had  failed  to  barter  for 
such  cardinal  necessities  to  the  success  of  his  venture. 

"  Better  have  doled  out  the  grub  to  them  in 
rations,"  grumbled  Rea. 

Twenty-four  hours  sufficed  to  show  Jones  the  wis 
dom  of  the  trapper's  words,  for  in  just  that  time  the 
crazed,  ignorant  savages  had  glutted  the  generous 
store  of  food,  which  should  have  lasted  them  for 
weeks.  The  next  day  they  were  begging  at  the  cabin 
door.  Rea  cursed  and  threatened  them  with  his  fists, 
but  they  returned  again  and  again. 

Days  passed.  All  the  time,  in  light  and  dark,  the 
Indians  filled  the  air  with  dismal  chant  and  doleful 
incantations  to  the  Great  Spirit,  and  the  turn !  turn ! 
turn !  turn !  of  tomtoms,  a  specific  feature  of  their 
wild  prayer  for  food. 

158 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Ox 


But  the  white  monotony  of  the  rolling  land  and 
level  lake  remained  unbroken.  The  reindeer  did 
not  come.  The  days  became  shorter,  dimmer,  darker. 
The  mercury  kept  on  the  slide. 

Forty  degrees  below  zero  did  not  trouble  the 
Indians.  They  stamped  till  they  dropped,  and  sang 
till  their  voices  vanished,  and  beat  the  tomtoms  ever 
lastingly.  Jones  fed  the  children  once  each  day, 
against  the  trapper's  advice. 

One  day,  while  Rea  was  absent,  a  dozen  braves 
succeeded  in  forcing  an  entrance,  and  clamored  so 
fiercely,  and  threatened  so  desperately,  that  Jones 
was  on  the  point  of  giving  them  food  when  the  door 
opened  to  admit  Rea. 

With  a  glance  he  saw  the  situation.  He  dropped 
the  bucket  he  carried,  threw  the  door  wide  open  and 
commenced  action.  Because  of  his  great  bulk  he 
seemed  slow,  but  every  blow  of  his  sledge-hammer 
fist  knocked  a  brave  against  the  wall,  or  through  the 
door  into  the  snow.  When  he  could  reach  two 
savages  at  once,  by  way  of  diversion,  he  swung  their 
heads  together  with  a  crack.  They  dropped  like 
dead  things.  Then  he  handled  them  as  if  they  were 
sacks  of  corn,  pitching  them  out  into  the  snow.  In 
two  minutes  the  cabin  was  clear.  He  banged  the 
door  and  slipped  the  bar  in  place. 

"  Buff,  I'm  goin'  to  get  mad  at  these  thievin'  red- 

159 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


skins  some  day,"  he  said  gruffly.  The  expanse  of  his 
chest  heaved  slightly,  like  the  slow  swell  of  a  calm 
ocean,  but  there  was  no  other  indication  of  unusual 
exertion. 

Jones  laughed,  and  again  gave  thanks  for  the 
comradeship  of  this  strange  man. 

Shortly  afterward,  he  went  out  for  wood,  and  as 
usual  scanned  the  expanse  of  the  lake.  The  sun  shone 
mistier  and  wanner,  and  frost  feathers  floated  in  the 
air.  Sky  and  sun  and  plain  and  lake — all  were  gray. 
Jones  fancied  he  saw  a  distant  moving  mass  of  darker 
shade  than  the  gray  background.  He  called  the 
trapper. 

"  Caribou,"  said  Rea  instantly.  "  The  vanguard 
of  the  migration.  Hear  the  Indians!  Hear  their 
cry :  *  Aton !  Aton !  '  they  mean  reindeer.  The 
idiots  have  scared  the  herd  with  their  infernal  racket, 
an'  no  meat  will  they  get.  The  caribou  will  keep  to 
the  ice,  an'  man  or  Indian  can't  stalk  them  there." 

For  a  few  moments  his  companion  surveyed  the 
lake  and  shore  with  a  plainsman's  eye,  then  dashed 
within,  to  reappear  with  a  Winchester  in  each  hand. 
Through  the  crowd  of  bewailing,  bemoaning  Indians 
he  sped,  to  the  low,  dying  bank.  The  hard  crust 
of  snow  upheld  him.  The  gray  cloud  was  a  thou 
sand  yards  out  upon  the  lake  and  moving  southeast. 
If  the  caribou  did  not  swerve  from  this  course  they 

160 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Occ 


would  pass  close  to  a  projecting  point  of  land,  a  half- 
mile  up  the  lake.  So,  keeping  a  wary  eye  upon 
them,  the  hunter  ran  swiftly.  He  had  not  hunted 
antelope  and  buffalo  on  the  plains  all  his  life  without 
learning  how  to  approach  moving  game.  As  long 
as  the  caribou  were  in  action,  they  could  not  tell 
whether  he  moved  or  was  motionless.  In  order  to 
tell  if  an  object  was  inanimate  or  not,  they  must  stop 
to  see,  of  which  fact  the  keen  hunter  took  advantage. 
Suddenly  he  saw  the  gray  mass  slow  down  and  bunch 
up.  He  stopped  running,  to  stand  like  a  stump. 
When  the  reindeer  moved  again,  he  moved,  and 
when  they  slackened  again,  he  stopped  and  became 
motionless.  As  they  kept  to  their  course,  he  worked 
gradually  closer  and  closer.  Soon  he  distinguished 
gray,  bobbing  heads.  When  the  leader  showed 
signs  of  halting  in  his  slow  trot  the  hunter  again 
became  a  statue.  He  saw  they  were  easy  to  deceive ; 
and,  daringly  confident  of  success,  he  encroached  on 
the  ice  and  closed  up  the  gap  till  not  more  than  two 
hundred  yards  separated  him  from  the  gray,  bobbing, 
antlered  mass. 

Jones  dropped  on  one  knee.  A  moment  only  his 
eyes  lingered  admiringly  on  the  wild  and  beautiful 
spectacle;  then  he  swept  one  of  the  rifles  to  a  level. 
Old  habit  made  the  little  beaded  sight  cover  first  the 
stately  leader.  Bang!  The  gray  monarch  leaped 

161 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


straight  forward,  forehoofs  up,  antlered  head  back, 
to  fall  dead  with  a  crash.  Then  for  a  few  moments 
the  Winchester  spat  a  deadly  stream  of  fire,  and  when 
emptied  was  thrown  down  for  the  other  gun,  which 
in  the  steady,  sure  hands  of  the  hunter  belched  death 
to  the  caribou. 

The  herd  rushed  on,  leaving  the  white  surface  of 
the  lake  gray  with  a  struggling,  kicking,  bellowing 
heap.  When  Jones  reached  the  caribou  he  saw 
several  trying  to  rise  on  crippled  legs.  With  his 
knife  he  killed  these,  not  without  some  hazard  to 
himself.  Most  of  the  fallen  ones  were  already  dead, 
and  the  others  soon  lay  still.  Beautiful  gray  crea 
tures  they  were,  almost  white,  with  wide-reaching, 
symmetrical  horns. 

A  medley  of  yells  arose  from  the  shore,  and  Rea 
appeared  running  with  two  sleds,  with  the  whole 
tribe  of  Yellow  Knives  pouring  out  of  the  forest 
behind  him. 

"  Buff,  you're  jest  what  old  Jim  said  you  was;" 
thundered  Rea,  as  he  surveyed  the  gray  pile. 
"  Here's  winter  meat,  an'  I'd  not  have  given  a  biscuit 
for  all  the  meat  I  thought  you'd  get." 

"  Thirty  shots  in  less  than  thirty  seconds,"  said 
Jones,  "  an'  I'll  bet  every  ball  I  sent  touched  hair. 
How  many  reindeer?  " 

"Twenty!  twenty!     Buff,  or  I've  forgot  how  to 

162 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Ooo 


count.  I  guess  mebbe  you  can't  handle  them  shootin' 
arms.  Ho !  here  comes  the  howlin'  redskins." 

Rea  whipped  out  a  bowie  knife  and  began  disem 
boweling  the  reindeer.  He  had  not  proceeded  far 
in  his  task  when  the  crazed  savages  were  around 
him.  Every  one  carried  a  basket  or  receptacle,  which 
he  swung  aloft,  and  they  sang,  prayed,  rejoiced  on 
their  knees.  Jones  turned  away  from  the  sickening 
scenes  that  convinced  him  these  savages  were  little 
better  than  cannibals.  Rea  cursed  them,  and  tumbled 
them  over,  and  threatened  them  with  the  big  bowie. 
An  altercation  ensued,  heated  on  his  side,  frenzied 
on  theirs.  Thinking  some  treachery  might  befall  his 
comrade,  Jones  ran  into  the  thick  of  the  group. 

"  Share  with  them,  Rea,  share  with  them." 

Whereupon  the  giant  hauled  out  ten  smoking  car 
casses.  Bursting  into  a  babel  of  savage  glee  and 
tumbling  over  one  another,  the  Indians  pulled  the 
caribou  to  the  shore. 

"  Thievin'  fools !  "  growled  Rea,  wiping  the  sweat 
from  his  brow.  "  Said  they'd  prevailed  on  the  Great 
Spirit  to  send  the  reindeer.  Why,  they'd  never 
smelled  warm  meat  but  for  you.  Now,  Buff,  they'll 
gorge  every  hair,  hide  an1  hoof  of  their  share  in  less 
than  a  week.  Thet's  the  last  we  do  for  the  damned 
cannibals.  Didn't  you  see  them  eatin'  of  the  raw 
innards? — faugh!  I'm  calculatin'  we'll  see  no  more 

163 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


reindeer.  It's  late  for  the  migration.  The  big  herd 
has  driven  southward.  But  we're  lucky,  thanks  to 
your  prairie  trainin'.  Come  on  now  with  the  sleds,  or 
we'll  have  a  pack  of  wolves  to  fight." 

By  loading  three  reindeer  on  each  sled,  the  hunters 
were  not  long  in  transporting  them  to  the  cabin. 
"  Buff,  there  ain't  much  doubt  about  them  keepin' 
nice  and  cool,"  said  Rea.  "  They'll  freeze,  an'  we 
can  skin  them  when  we  want." 

That  night  the  starved  wolf  dogs  gorged  them 
selves  till  they  could  not  rise  from  the  snow.  Like 
wise  the  Yellow  Knives  feasted.  How  long  the  ten 
reindeer  might  have  served  the  wasteful  tribe,  Rea 
and  Jones  never  found  out.  The  next  day  two 
Indians  arrived  with  dog-trains,  and  their  advent  was 
hailed  with  another  feast,  and  a  pow-wow  that  lasted 
into  the  night. 

"  Guess  we're  goin*  to  get  rid  of  our  blasted 
hungry  neighbors,"  said  Rea,  coming  in  next  morning 
with  the  water  pail,  "  an'  I'll  be  durned,  Buff,  if  I 
don't  believe  them  crazy  heathen  have  been  told 
about  you.  Them  Indians  was  messengers.  Grab 
your  gun,  an'  let's  walk  over  and  see." 

The  Yellow  Knives  were  breaking  camp,  and  the 
hunters  were  at  once  conscious  of  the  difference  in 
their  bearing.  Rea  addressed  several  braves,  but  got 
no  reply.  He  laid  his  broad  hand  on  the  old  wrin- 

164 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Ox 


kled  chief,  who  repulsed  him,  and  turned  his  back. 
With  a  growl,  the  trapper  spun  the  Indian  round, 
and  spoke  as  many  words  of  the  language  as  he  knew. 
He  got  a  cold  response,  which  ended  in  the  ragged 
old  chief  starting  up,  stretching  a  long,  dark  arm 
northward,  and  with  eyes  fixed  in  fanatical  subjection, 
shouting:  "  Naza  !  Naza  !  Naza!  " 

"  Heathen !  "  Rea  shook  his  gun  in  the  faces  of 
the  messengers.  u  It'll  go  bad  with  you  to  come 
Nazain'  any  longer  on  our  trail.  Come,  Buff,  clear 
out  before  I  get  mad." 

When  they  were  once  more  in  the  cabin,  Rea  told 
Jones  that  the  messengers  had  been  sent  to  warn  the 
Yellow  Knives  not  to  aid  the  white  hunters  in  any 
way.  That  night  the  dogs  were  kept  inside,  and  the 
men  took  turns  in  watching.  Morning  showed  a 
broad  trail  southward.  And  with  the  going  of  the 
Yellow  Knives  the  mercury  dropped  to  fifty,  and  the 
long,  twilight  winter  night  fell. 

So  with  this  agreeable  riddance  and  plenty  of  meat 
and  fuel  to  cheer  them,  the  hunters  sat  down  in  their 
snug  cabin  to  wait  many  months  for  daylight. 

Those  few  intervals  when  the  wind  did  not  blow 
were  the  only  times  Rea  and  Jones  got  out  of  doors. 
To  the  plainsman,  new  to  the  north,  the  dim  gray 
world  about  him  was  of  exceeding  interest.  Out  of 
the  twilight  shone  a  wan,  round,  lusterless  ring  that 

165 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Rea  said  was  the  sun.  The  silence  and  desolation 
were  heart-numbing. 

"  Where  are  the  wolves?  "  asked  Jones  of  Rea. 

"  Wolves  can't  live  on  snow.  They're  farther 
south  after  caribou,  or  farther  north  after  musk-ox." 

In  those  few  still  intervals  Jones  remained  out  as 
long  as  he  dared,  with  the  mercury  sinking  to  sixty 
degrees.  He  turned  from  the  wonder  of  the  unreal, 
remote  sun,  to  the  marvel  in  the  north — Aurora 
borealis — ever-present,  ever-changing,  ever-beautiful ! 
and  he  gazed  in  rapt  attention. 

"  Polar  lights,"  said  Rea,  as  if  he  were  speaking 
of  biscuits.  u  You'll  freeze.  It's  gettin'  cold." 

Cold  it  became,  to  the  matter  of  seventy  degrees. 
Frost  covered  the  walls  of  the  cabin  and  the  roof, 
except  just  over  the  fire.  The  reindeer  were  harder 
than  iron.  A  knife  or  an  ax  or  a  steel-trap  burned 
as  if  it  had  been  heated  in  fire,  and  stuck  to  the  hand. 
The  hunters  experienced  trouble  in  breathing;  the  air 
hurt  their  lungs. 

The  months  dragged.  Rea  grew  more  silent  day 
by  day,  and  as  he  sat  before  the  fire  his  wide  shoul 
ders  sagged  lower  and  lower.  Jones,  unaccustomed 
to  the  waiting,  the  restraint,  the  barrier  of  the  north, 
worked  on  guns,  sleds,  harness,  till  he  felt  he  would 
go  mad.  Then  to  save  his  mind  he  constructed  a 
windmill  of  caribou  hides  and  pondered  over  it, 

166 


The  Land  of  the  Musk-Ox 


trying  to  invent,  to  put  into  practical  use  an  idea  he 
had  once  conceived. 

Hour  after  hour  he  lay  under  his  blankets  unable 
to  sleep,  and  listened  to  the  north  wind.  Sometimes 
Rea  mumbled  in  his  slumbers;  once  his  giant  form 
started  up,  and  he  muttered  a  woman's  name. 
Shadows  from  the  fire  flickered  on  the  walls,  vision 
ary,  spectral  shadows,  cold  and  gray,  fitting  the 
north.  At  such  times  he  longed  with  all  the  power 
of  his  soul  to  be  among  those  scenes  far  southward, 
which  he  called  home.  For  days  Rea  never  spoke  a 
word,  only  gazed  into  the  fire,  ate  and  slept.  Jones, 
drifting  far  from  his  real  self,  feared  the  strange 
mood  of  the  trapper  and  sought  to  break  it,  but 
without  avail.  More  and  more  he  reproached  him 
self,  and  singularly  on  the  one  fact  that,  as  he  did 
not  smoke  himself,  he  had  brought  only  a  small  store 
of  tobacco.  Rea,  inordinate  and  inveterate  smoker, 
had  puffed  away  all  the  weed  in  clouds  of  white, 
then  had  relapsed  into  gloom. 


167 


CHAPTER    X 

SUCCESS  AND  FAILURE 

A  last  the  marvel  in  the  north  dimmed,  the 
obscure  gray  shade  lifted,  the  hope  in  the 
south  brightened,  and  the  mercury  climbed — 
reluctantly,  with  a  tyrant's  hate  to  relinquish  power. 

Spring  weather  at  twenty-five  below  zero !  On 
April  1 2th  a  small  band  of  Indians  made  their  appear 
ance.  Of  the  Dog  tribe  were  they,  an  offcast  of  the 
Great  Slaves,  according  to  Rea,  and  as  motley,  star 
ing  and  starved  as  the  Yellow  Knives.  But  they  were 
friendly,  which  presupposed  ignorance  of  the  white 
hunters,  and  Rea  persuaded  the  strongest  brave  to 
accompany  them  as  guide  northward  after  musk-oxen. 

On  April  i6th,  having  given  the  Indians  several 
caribou  carcasses,  and  assuring  them  that  the  cabin 
was  protected  by  white  spirits,  Rea  and  Jones,  each 
with  sled  and  train  of  dogs,  started  out  after  their 
guide,  who  was  similarly  equipped,  over  the  glisten 
ing  snow  toward  the  north.  They  made  sixty  miles 
the  first  day,  and  pitched  their  Indian  tepee  on  the 
shores  of  Artillery  Lake.  Traveling  northeast,  they 
covered  its  white  waste  of  one  hundred  miles  in  two 

168 


Success  and  Failure 


days.  Then  a  day  due  north,  over  rolling,  monont- 
onously  snowy  plain,  devoid  of  rock,  tree  or  shrub, 
brought  them  into  a  country  of  the  strangest,  queerest 
little  spruce  trees,  very  slender,  and  none  of  them  over 
fifteen  feet  in  height.  A  primeval  forest  of  saplings. 

"  Ditchen  Nechila !  "  said  the  guide. 

"  Land  of  Sticks  Little,"  translated  Rea. 

An  occasional  reindeer  was  seen  and  numerous 
foxes  and  hares  trotted  off  into  the  woods,  evincing 
more  curiosity  than  fear.  All  were  silver  white, 
even  the  reindeer,  at  a  distance,  taking  the  hue  of 
the  north.  Once  a  beautiful  creature,  unblemished 
as  the  snow  it  trod,  ran  up  a  ridge  and  stood  watch 
ing  the  hunters.  It  resembled  a  monster  dog,  only  it 
was  inexpressibly  more  wild  looking. 

"  Ho !  Ho !  there  you  are !  "  cried  Rea,  reaching 
for  his  Winchester.  "  Polar  wolf!  Them's  the 
white  devils  we'll  have  hell  with." 

As  if  the  wolf  understood,  he  lifted  his  white, 
sharp  head  and  uttered  a  bark  or  howl  that  was  like 
nothing  so  much  as  a  haunting,  unearthly  mourn. 
The  animal  then  merged  into  the  white,  as  if  he  were 
really  a  spirit  of  the  world  whence  his  cry  seemed  to 
come. 

In  this  ancient  forest  of  youthful  appearing  trees, 
the  hunters  cut  firewood  to  the  full  carrying  capacity 
of  the  sleds.  For  five  days  the  Indian  guide  drove 

169 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


his  dogs  over  the  smooth  crust,  and  on  the  sixth 
day,  about  noon,  halting  in  a  hollow,  he  pointed  to 
tracks  in  the  snow  and  called  out:  "  Ageter!  Ageter! 
Ageter!" 

The  hunters  saw  sharply  defined  hoof-marks,  not 
unlike  the  tracks  of  reindeer,  except  that  they  were 
longer.  The  tepee  was  set  up  on  the  spot  and  the 
dogs  unharnessed. 

The  Indian  led  the  way  with  the  dogs,  and  Rea 
and  Jones  followed,  slipping  over  the  hard  crust 
without  sinking  in  and  traveling  swiftly.  Soon  the 
guide,  pointing,  again  let  out  the  cry:  "Ageter!" 
at  the  same  moment  loosing  the  dogs. 

Some  few  hundred  yards  down  the  hollow,  a 
number  of  large  black  animals,  not  unlike  the  shaggy, 
humpy  buffalo,  lumbered  over  the  snow.  Jones 
echoed  Rea's  yell,  and  broke  into  a  run,  easily  dis 
tancing  the  puffing  giant. 

The  musk-oxen  squared  round  to  the  dogs,  and 
were  soon  surrounded  by  the  yelping  pack.  Jones 
came  up  to  find  six  old  bulls  uttering  grunts  of  rage 
and  shaking  ram-like  horns  at  their  tormentors.  Not 
withstanding  that  for  Jones  this  was  the  cumulation 
of  years  of  desire,  the  crowning  moment,  the  climax 
and  fruition  of  long-harbored  dreams,  he  halted 
before  the  tame  and  helpless  beasts,  with  joy  not 

unmixed  with  pain. 

17P 


Success  and  Failure 


"  It  will  be  murder!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It's  like 
shooting  down  sheep." 

Rea  came  crashing  up  behind  him  and  yelled: 
"  Get  busy.  We  need  fresh  meat,  an'  I  want  the 
skins." 

The  bulls  succumbed  to  well-directed  shots,  and 
the  Indian  and  Rea  hurried  back  to  camp  with  the 
dogs  to  fetch  the  sleds,  while  Jones  examined  with 
warm  interest  the  animals  he  had  wanted  to  see  all 
his  life.  He  found  the  largest  bull  approached 
within  a  third  of  the  size  of  a  buffalo.  He  was  of  a 
brownish-black  color  and  very  like  a  large,  woolly 
ram.  His  head  was  broad,  with  sharp,  small  ears; 
the  horns  had  wide  and  flattened  bases  and  lay  flat 
on  the  head,  to  run  down  back  of  the  eyes,  then  curve 
forward  to  a  sharp  point.  Like  the  bison,  the  musk- 
ox  had  short,  heavy  limbs,  covered  with  very  long 
hair,  and  small,  hard  hoofs  with  hairy  tufts  inside 
the  curve  of  bone,  which  probably  served  as  pads  or 
checks  to  hold  the  hoof  firm  on  ice.  His  legs  seemed 
out  of  proportion  to  his  body. 

Two  musk-oxen  were  loaded  on  a  sled  and  hauled 
to  camp  in  one  trip.  Skinning  them  was  but  short 
work  for  such  expert  hands.  All  the  choice  cuts  of 
meat  were  saved.  No  time  was  lost  in  broiling  a 
steak,  which  they  found  sweet  and  juicy,  with  a 
flavor  of  musk  that  was  disagreeable. 

171 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  Now,  Rea,  for  the  calves,"  exclaimed  Jones, 
"  and  then  we're  homeward  bound." 

"  I  hate  to  tell  this  redskin,"  replied  Rea.  "  He'll 
be  like  the  others.  But  it  ain't  likely  he'd  desert 
us  here.  He's  far  from  his  base,  with  nothin'  but 
thet  old  musket."  Rea  then  commanded  the  atten 
tion  of  the  brave,  and  began  to  mangle  the  Great 
Slave  and  Yellow  Knife  languages.  Of  this  mixture 
Jones  knew  but  few  words.  "  Ageter  nechila,"  which 
Rea  kept  repeating,  he  knew,  however,  meant  "  musk- 
oxen  little." 

The  guide  stared,  suddenly  appeared  to  get  Rea's 
meaning,  then  vigorously  shook  his  head  and  gazed 
at  Jones  in  fear  and  horror.  Following  this  came 
an  action  as  singular  as  inexplicable.  Slowly  rising, 
he  faced  the  north,  lifted  his  hand,  and  remained  stat 
uesque  in  his  immobility.  Then  he  began  deliberately 
packing  his  blankets  and  traps  on  his  sled,  which  had 
not  been  unhitched  from  the  train  of  dogs. 

u  Jackoway  ditchen  hula,"  he  said,  and  pointed 
south. 

"  Jackoway  ditchen  hula,"  echoed  Rea.  "The 
damned  Indian  says  '  wife  sticks  none.'  He's  goin' 
to  quit  us.  What  do  you  think  of  thet?  His  wife's 
out  of  wood.  Jackoway  out  of  wood,  an'  here  we 
are  two  days  from  the  Arctic  Ocean!  Jones,  the 
damned  heathen  don't  go  back !  " 

172 


Success  and  Failure 


The  trapper  coolly  cocked  his  rifle.  The  savage, 
who  plainly  saw  and  understood  the  action,  never 
flinched.  He  turned  his  breast  to  Rea,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  his  demeanor  to  suggest  his  relation 
to  a  craven  tribe. 

"  Good  heavens,  Rea,  don't  kill  him !  "  exclaimed 
Jones,  knocking  up  the  leveled  rifle. 

"Why  not,  I'd  ii&e  to  know?"  demanded  Rea, 
as  if  he  were  considering  the  fate  of  a  threatening 
beast.  "  I  reckon  it'd  be  a  bad  thing  for  us  to  let 
him  go." 

"  Let  him  go,"  said  Jones.  "  We  are  here  on  the 
ground.  We  have  dogs  and  meat.  We'll  get  our 
calves  and  reach  the  lake  as  soon  as  he  does,  and  we 
might  get  there  before." 

"  Mebbe  we  will,"  growled  Rea. 

No  vacillation  attended  the  Indian's  mood.  From 
a  friendly  guide,  he  had  suddenly  been  transformed 
into  a  dark,  sullen  savage.  He  refused  the  musk-ox 
meat  offered  by  Jones,  and  he  pointed  south  and 
looked  at  the  white  hunters  as  if  he  asked  them  to  go 
with  him.  Both  men  shook  their  heads  in  answer. 
The  savage  struck  his  breast  a  sounding  blow  and 
with  his  index  finger  pointed  at  the  white  of  the 
north,  he  shouted  dramatically:  "Naza!  Naza! 
Naza !  " 

He  then  leaped  upon  his  sled,  lashed  his  dogs  into 

173 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


a  run,  and  without  looking  back  disappeared  over 
a  ridge. 

The  musk-ox  hunters  sat  long  silent.  Finally  Rea 
shook  his  shaggy  locks  and  roared.  "  Ho !  Ho ! 
Jackoway  out  of  wood !  Jackoway  out  of  wood ! 
Jackoway  out  of  wood!" 

On  the  day  following  the  desertion,  Jones  found 
tracks  to  the  north  of  the  camp,  making  a  broad 
trail  in  which  were  numerous  little  imprints  that  sent 
him  flying  back  to  get  Rea  and  the  dogs.  Musk- 
oxen  in  great  numbers  had  passed  in  the  night,  and 
Jones  and  Rea  had  not  trailed  the  herd  a  mile  before 
they  had  it  in  sight.  When  the  dogs  burst  into  full 
cry,  the  musk-oxen  climbed  a  high  knoll  and  squared 
about  to  give  battle. 

"Calves!     Calves!     Calves!"  cried  Jones. 

"  Hold  back !  Hold  back !  Thet's  a  big  herd,  an' 
they'll  show  fight." 

As  good  fortune  would  have  it,  the  herd  split  up 
into  several  sections,  and  one  part,  hard  pressed  by 
the  dogs,  ran  down  the  knoll,  to  be  cornered  under 
the  lee  of  a  bank.  The  hunters,  seeing  this  small 
number,  hurried  upon  them  to  find  three  cows  and 
five  badly  frightened  little  calves  backed  against  the 
bank  of  snow,  with  small  red  eyes  fastened  on  the 
barking,  snapping  dogs. 

To   a   man  of  Jones's  experience  and  skill,    the 
174 


Success  and  Failure 


capturing  of  the  calves  was  a  ridiculously  easy  piece 
of  work.  The  cows  tossed  their  heads,  watched  the 
dogs,  and  forgot  their  young.  The  first  cast  of  the 
lasso  settled  over  the  neck  of  a  little  fellow.  Jones 
hauled  him  out  over  the  slippery  snow  and  laughed 
as  he  bound  the  hairy  legs.  In  less  time  than  he  had 
taken  to  capture  one  buffalo  calf,  with  half  the  effort, 
he  had  all  the  little  musk-oxen  bound  fast.  Then  he 
signaled  this  feat  by  pealing  out  an  Indian  yell  of 
victory. 

"  Buff,  we've  got  'em,"  cried  Rea;  "  an'  now  for 
the  hell  of  it — gettin'  'em  home.  I'll  fetch  the  sleds. 
You  might  as  well  down  thet  best  cow  for  me.  I 
can  use  another  skin." 

Of  all  Jones's  prizes  of  captured  wild  beasts — 
which  numbered  nearly  every  species  common  to 
western  North  America — he  took  greatest  pride  in 
the  little  musk-oxen.  In  truth,  so  great  had  been 
his  passion  to  capture  some  of  these  rare  and  inac 
cessible  mammals,  that  he  considered  the  day's  work 
the  fulfillment  of  his  life's  purpose.  He  was  happy. 
Never  had  he  been  so  delighted  as  when,  the  very 
evening  of  their  captivity,  the  musk-oxen,  evincing 
no  particular  fear  of  him,  began  to  dig  with  sharp 
hoofs  into  the  snow  for  moss.  And  they  found  moss, 
and  ate  it,  which  solved  Jones's  greatest  problem. 
He  had  hardly  dared  to  think  how  to  feed  them,  and 

175 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


here  they  were  picking  sustenance  out  of  the  frozen 
snow. 

"  Rea,  will  you  look  at  that!  Rea,  will  you  look 
at  that!  "  he  kept  repeating.  "  See,  they're  hunting 
feed." 

And  the  giant,  with  his  rare  smile,  watched  him 
play  with  the  calves.  They  were  about  two  and  a 
half  feet  high,  and  resembled  long-haired  sheep.  The 
ears  and  horns  were  undiscernible,  and  their  color 
considerably  lighter  than  that  of  the  matured  beasts. 

"  No  sense  of  fear  of  man,"  said  the  life-student 
of  animals.  "  But  they  shrink  from  the  dogs." 

In  packing  for  the  journey  south,  the  captives  were 
strapped  on  the  sleds.  This  circumstance  necessi 
tated  a  sacrifice  of  meat  and  wood,  which  brought 
grave,  doubtful  shakes  of  Rea's  great  head. 

Days  of  hastening  over  the  icy  snow,  with  short 
hours  for  sleep  and  rest,  passed  before  the  hunters 
awoke  to  the  consciousness  that  they  were  lost.  The 
meat  they  had  packed  had  gone  to  feed  themselves 
and  the  dogs.  Only  a  few  sticks  of  wood  were  left. 

"  Better  kill  a  calf,  an'  cook  meat  while  we've  got 
a  little  wood  left,"  suggested  Rea. 

"  Kill  one  of  my  calves?  I'd  starve  first!  "  cried 
Jones. 

The  hungry  giant  said  no  more. 

They  headed  southwest.     All  about  them  glared 
176 


Success  and  Failure 


the  grim  monotony  of  the  arctics.  No  rock  or  bush 
or  tree  made  a  welcome  mark  upon  the  hoary  plain. 
Wonderland  of  frost,  white  marble  desert,  infinitude 
of  gleaming  silences ! 

Snow  began  to  fall,  making  the  dogs  flounder, 
obliterating  the  sun  by  which  they  traveled.  They 
camped  to  wait  for  clearing  weather.  Biscuits 
soaked  in  tea  made  their  meal.  At  dawn  Jones 
crawled  out  of  the  tepee.  The  snow  had  ceased. 
But  where  were  the  dogs?  He  yelled  in  alarm. 
Then  little  mounds  of  white,  scattered  here  and 
there,  became  animated,  heaved,  rocked  and  rose  to 
fall  to  pieces,  exposing  the  dogs.  Blankets  of  snow 
had  been  their  covering. 

Rea  had  ceased  his  "  Jackoway  out  of  wood," 
for  a  reiterated  question:  "  Where  are  the  wolves?  " 

"  Lost,"  replied  Jones  in  hollow  humor. 

Near  the  close  of  that  day,  in  which  they  had 
resumed  travel,  from  the  crest  of  a  ridge  they 
descried  a  long,  low,  undulating  dark  line.  It  proved 
to  be  the  forest  of  u  little  sticks,"  where,  with  grate 
ful  assurance  of  fire  and  of  soon  finding  their  old 
trail,  they  made  camp. 

"'  We've  four  biscuits  left,  an'  enough  tea  for  one 
drink  each,"  said  Rea.  "  I  calculate  we're  two  hun 
dred  miles  from  Great  Slave  Lake.  Where  are  the 
wolves?  " 

177 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


At  that  moment  the  night  wind  wafted  through 
the  forest  a  long,  haunting  mourn.  The  calves 
shifted  uneasily;  the  dogs  raised  sharp  noses  to  sniff 
the  air,  and  Rea,  settling  back  against  a  tree,  cried 
out:  "  Ho!  Ho!  "  Again  the  savage  sound,  a  keen 
wailing  note  with  the  hunger  of  the  northland  in  it, 
broke  the  cold  silence.  "  You'll  see  a  pack  of  real 
wolves  in  a  minute,"  said  Rea.  Soon  a  swift  patter 
ing  of  feet  down  a  forest  slope  brought  him  to  his 
feet  with  a  curse  to  reach  a  brawny  hand  for  his 
rifle.  White  streaks  crossed  the  black  of  the  tree 
trunks;  then  indistinct  forms,  the  color  of  snow, 
swept  up,  spread  out  and  streaked  to  and  fro.  Jones 
thought  the  great,  gaunt,  pure  white  beasts  the  spec 
tral  wolves  of  Rea's  fancy,  for  they  were  silent,  and 
silent  wolves  must  belong  to  dreams  only. 

"  Ho !  Ho !  "  yelled  Rea.  "  There's  green-fire  eyes 
for  you,  Buff.  Hell  itself  ain't  nothin'  to  these  white 
devils.  Get  the  calves  in  the  tepee,  an'  stand  ready 
to  loose  the  dogs,  for  we've  got  to  fight." 

Raising  his  rifle  he  opened  fire  upon  the  white  foe. 
A  struggling,  rustling  sound  followed  the  shots. 
But  whether  it  was  the  threshing  about  of  wolves 
dying  in  agony,  or  the  fighting  of  the  fortunate  ones 
over  those  shot,  could  not  be  ascertained  in  the 
confusion. 

Following  his  example  Jones  also  fired  rapidly  on 

178 


Success  and  Failure 


the  other  side  of  the  tepee.  The  same  inarticulate, 
silently  rustling  wrestle  succeeded  this  volley. 

"  Wait!  "  cried  Rea.    "  Be  sparin'  of  cartridges." 

The  dogs  strained  at  their  chains  and  bravely 
bayed  the  wolves.  The  hunters  heaped  logs  and 
brush  on  the  fire,  which,  blazing  up,  sent  a  bright 
light  far  into  the  woods.  On  the  outer  edge  of  that 
circle  moved  the  white,  restless,  gliding  forms. 

"  They're  more  afraid  of  fire  than  of  us,"  said 
Jones. 

So  it  proved.  When  the  fire  burned  and  crackled 
they  kept  well  in  the  background.  The  hunters  had 
a  long  respite  from  serious  anxiety,  during  which 
time  they  collected  all  the  available  wood  at  hand. 
But  at  midnight,  when  this  had  been  mostly  con 
sumed,  the  wolves  grew  bold  again. 

"  Have  you  any  shots  left  for  the  45-90,  besides 
what's  in  the  magazine?"  asked  Rea. 

"  Yes,  a  good  handful." 

"Well,   get  busy." 

With  careful  aim  Jones  emptied  the  magazine  into 
the  gray,  gliding,  groping  mass.  The  same  rustling, 
shuffling,  almost  silent  strife  ensued. 

"  Rea,  there's  something  uncanny  about  those 
brutes.  A  silent  pack  of  wolves !  " 

"  Ho !  Ho !  "  rolled  the  giant's  answer  through 

the  woods. 

179 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


For  the  present  the  attack  appeared  to  have  been 
effectually  checked.  The  hunters,  sparingly  adding 
a  little  of  their  fast  diminishing  pile  of  fuel  to  the 
fire,  decided  to  lie  down  for  much  needed  rest,  but 
not  for  sleep.  How  long  they  lay  there,  cramped 
by  the  calves,  listening  for  stealthy  steps,  neither 
could  tell;  it  might  have  been  moments  and  it  might 
have  been  hours.  All  at  once  came  a  rapid  rush  of 
pattering  feet,  succeeded  by  a  chorus  of  angry  barks, 
then  a  terrible  commingling  of  savage  snarls,  growls, 
snaps  and  yelps. 

"  Out!  "  yelled  Rea.     "They're  on  the  dogs!  " 

Jones  pushed  his  cocked  rifle  ahead  of  him  and 
straightened  up  outside  the  tepee.  A  wolf,  large 
as  a  panther  and  white  as  the  gleaming  snow,  sprang 
at  him.  Even  as  he  discharged  his  rifle,  right  against 
the  breast  of  the  beast,  he  saw  its  dripping  jaws,  its 
wicked  green  eyes,  like  spurts  of  fire  and  felt  its  hot 
breath.  It  fell  at  his  feet  and  writhed  in  the  death 
struggle.  Slender  bodies  of  black  and  white,  whir 
ling  and  tussling  together,  sent  out  fiendish  uproar. 
Rea  threw  a  blazing  stick  of  wood  among  them, 
which  sizzled  as  it  met  the  furry  coats,  and  brandish 
ing  another  he  ran  into  the  thick  of  the  fight.  Unable 
to  stand  the  proximity  of  fire,  the  wolves  bolted  and 
loped  off  into  the  woods. 

"  What  a  huge  brute !  "  exclaimed  Jones,  dragging 

180 


Success  and  Failure 


the  one  he  had  shot  into  the  light.  It  was  a  superb 
animal,  thin,  supple,  strong,  with  a  coat  of  frosty 
fur,  very  long  and  fine.  Rea  began  at  once  to  skin 
it,  remarking  that  he  hoped  to  find  other  pelts  in  the 
morning. 

Though  the  wolves  remained  in  the  vicinity  of 
camp,  none  ventured  near.  The  dogs  moaned  and 
whined;  their  restlessness  increased  as  dawn  ap 
proached,  and  when  the  gray  light  came,  Jones  found 
that  some  of  them  had  been  badly  lacerated  by  the 
fangs  of  the  wolves.  Rea  hunted  for  dead  wolves 
and  found  not  so  much  as  a  piece  of  white  fur. 

Soon  the  hunters  were  speeding  southward.  Other 
than  a  disposition  to  fight  among  themselves,  the 
dogs  showed  no  evil  effects  of  the  attack.  They 
were  lashed  to  their  best  speed,  for  Rea  said  the 
white  rangers  of  the  north  would  never  quit  their 
trail.  All  day  the  men  listened  for  the  wild,  lone 
some,  haunting  mourn.  But  it  came  not. 

A  wonderful  halo  of  white  and  gold,  that  Rea 
called  a  sun-dog,  hung  in  the  sky  all  afternoon,  and 
dazzlingly  bright  over  the  dazzling  world  of  snow, 
circled  and  glowed  a  mocking  sun,  brother  of  the 
desert  mirage,  beautiful  illusion,  smiling  cold  out  of 
the  polar  blue. 

The  first  pale  evening  star  twinkled  in  the  east 
when  the  hunters  made  camp  on  the  shore  of  Artil- 

181 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


lery  Lake.  At  dusk  the  clear,  silent  air  opened  to 
the  sound  of  a  long,  haunting  mourn. 

"  Ho!  Ho!  "  called  Rea.  His  hoarse,  deep  voice 
rang  defiance  to  the  foe. 

While  he  built  a  fire  before  the  tepee,  Jones  strode 
up  and  down,  suddenly  to  whip  out  his  knife  and 
make  for  the  tame  little  musk-oxen,  now  digging  in 
the  snow.  Then  he  wheeled  abruptly  and  held  out 
the  blade  to  Rea. 

"  What  for?  "  demanded  the  giant. 

"  We've  got  to  eat,"  said  Jones.  "  And  I  can't 
kill  one  of  them.  I  can't,  so  you  do  it." 

"  Kill  one  of  our  calves?  "  roared  Rea.  "  Not  till 
hell  freezes  over !  I  ain't  commenced  to  get  hungry. 
Besides,  the  wolves  are  going  to  eat  us,  calves  and 
all." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  They  ate  their  last  bis 
cuit.  Jones  packed  the  calves  away  in  the  tepee, 
and  turned  to  the  dogs.  All  day  they  had  worried 
him;  something  was  amiss  with  them,  and  even  as 
he  went  among  them  a  fierce  fight  broke  out.  Jones 
saw  it  was  unusual,  for  the  attacked  dogs  showed 
craven  fear,  and  the  attacking  ones  a  howling,  savage 
intensity  that  surprised  him.  Then  one  of  the  vicious 
brutes  rolled  his  eyes,  frothed  at  the  mouth,  shud 
dered  and  leaped  in  his  harness,  vented  a  hoarse 
howl  and  fell  back  shaking  and  retching. 

182 


Success  and  Failure 


"  My  God!  Rea !  "  cried  Jones  in  horror.  "  Come 
here !  Look !  That  dog  is  dying  of  rabies !  Hydro 
phobia  !  The  white  wolves  have  hydrophobia !  " 

"If  you  ain't  right!"  exclaimed  Rea.  "I  seen 
a  dog  die  of  thet  onct,  an'  he  acted  like  this.  An' 
thet  one  ain't  all.  Look,  Buff !  look  at  them  green 
eyes!  Didn't  I  say  the  white  wolves  was  hell? 
We'll  have  to  kill  every  dog  we've  got." 

Jones  shot  the  dog,  and  soon  afterward  three  more 
that  manifested  signs  of  the  disease.  It  was  an 
awful  situation.  To  kill  all  the  dogs  meant  simply 
to  sacrifice  his  life  and  Rea's;  it  meant  abandoning 
hope  of  ever  reaching  the  cabin.  Then  to  risk  being 
bitten  by  one  of  the  poisoned,  maddened  brutes,  to 
risk  the  most  horrible  of  agonizing  deaths — that  was 
even  worse. 

"  Rea,  we've  one  chance,"  cried  Jones,  with  pale 
face.  "  Can  you  hold  the  dogs,  one  by  one,  while  I 
muzzle  them?  " 

"  Ho !  Ho !  "  replied  the  giant.  Placing  his  bowie 
knife  between  his  teeth,  with  gloved  hands  he  seized 
and  dragged  one  of  the  dogs  to  the  campfire.  The 
animal  whined  and  protested,  but  showed  no  ill 
spirit.  Jones  muzzled  his  jaws  tightly  with  strong 
cords.  Another  and  another  were  tied  up,  then  one 
which  tried  to  snap  at  Jones  was  nearly  crushed  by 
the  giant's  grip.  The  last,  a  surly  brute,  broke  out 

183 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


into  mad  ravings  the  moment  he  felt  the  touch  of 
Jones's  hands,  and  writhing,  frothing,  he  snapped 
Jones's  sleeve.  Rea  jerked  him  loose  and  held  him 
in  the  air  with  one  arm,  while  with  the  other  he 
swung  the  bowie.  They  hauled  the  dead  dogs  out 
on  the  snow,  and  returning  to  the  fire  sat  down  to 
await  the  cry  they  expected. 

Presently,  as  darkness  fastened  down  tight,  it 
came — the  same  cry,  wild,  haunting,  mourning.  But 
for  hours  it  was  not  repeated. 

"Better  rest  some,"  said  Rea;  "I'll  call  you  if 
they  come." 

Jones  dropped  to  sleep  as  he  touched  his  blankets. 
Morning  dawned  for  him,  to  find  the  great,  dark, 
shadowy  figure  of  the  giant  nodding  over  the  fire. 

"How's  this?  Why  didn't  you  call  me?" 
demanded  Jones. 

"  The  wolves  only  fought  a  little  over  the  dead 
dogs." 

On  the  instant  Jones  saw  a  wolf  skulking  up  the 
bank.  Throwing  up  his  rifle,  which  he  had  carried 
out  of  the  tepee,  he  took  a  snap-shot  at  the  beast. 
It  ran  off  on  three  legs,  to  go  out  of  sight  over  the 
bank.  Jones  scrambled  up  the  steep,  slippery  place, 
and  upon  arriving  at  the  ridge,  which  took  several 
moments  of  hard  work,  he  looked  everywhere  for 
the  wolf.  In  a  moment  he  saw  the  animal,  standing 

184 


Success  and  Failure 


still  some  hundred  or  more  paces  down  a  hollow. 
With  the  quick  report  of  Jones's  second  shot,  the 
wolf  fell  and  rolled  over.  The  hunter  ran  to  the 
spot  to  find  the  wolf  was  dead.  Taking  hold  of  a 
front  paw,  he  dragged  the  animal  over  the  snow  to 
camp.  Rea  began  to  skin  the  animal,  when  suddenly 
he  exclaimed: 

"  This  fellow's  hind  foot  is  gone!  " 

"  That's  strange.  I  saw  it  hanging  by  the  skin 
as  the  wolf  ran  up  the  bank.  I'll  look  for  it." 

By  the  bloody  trail  on  the  snow  he  returned  to  the 
place  where  the  wolf  had  fallen,  and  thence  back  to 
the  spot  where  its  leg  had  been  broken  by  the  bullet. 
He  discovered  no  sign  of  the  foot. 

"  Didn't  find  it,  did  you?  "  said  Rea. 

"  No,  and  it  appears  odd  to  me.  The  snow  is  so 
hard  the  foot  could  not  have  sunk." 

"  Well,  the  wolf  ate  his  foot,  thet's  what," 
returned  Rea.  "  Look  at  them  teeth  marks!  " 

"Is  it  possible?"  Jones  stared  at  the  leg  Rea 
held  up. 

'*  Yes,  it  is.  These  wolves  are  crazy  at  times. 
You've  seen  thet.  An'  the  smell  of  blood,  an'  nothin' 
else,  mind  you,  in  my  opinion,  made  him  eat  his  own 
foot.  We'll  cut  him  open." 

Impossible  as  the  thing  seemed  to  Jones — and  he 
could  not  but  believe  further  evidence  of  his  own 

185 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 

eyes — it  was  even  stranger  to  drive  a  train  of  mad 
dogs.  Yet  that  was  what  Rea  and  he  did,  and  lashed 
them,  beat  them  to  cover  many  miles  in  the  long  day's 
journey.  Rabies  had  broken  out  in  several  dogs  so 
alarmingly  that  Jones  had  to  kill  them  at  the  end  of 
the  run.  And  hardly  had  the  sound  of  the  shots 
died  when  faint  and  far  away,  but  clear  as  a  bell, 
bayed  on  the  wind  the  same  haunting  mourn  of  a 
trailing  wolf. 

"  Ho !  Ho !  where  are  the  wolves?  "  cried  Rea. 

A  waiting,  watching,  sleepless  night  followed. 
Again  the  hunters  faced  the  south.  Hour  after 
hour,  riding,  running,  walking,  they  urged  the  poor, 
jaded,  poisoned  dogs.  At  dark  they  reached  the 
head  of  Artillery  Lake.  Rea  placed  the  tepee 
between  two  huge  stones.  Then  the  hungry  hunters, 
tired,  grim,  silent,  desperate,  awaited  the  familiar 
cry. 

It  came  on  the  cold  wind,  the  same  haunting 
mourn,  dreadful  in  its  significance. 

Absence  of  fire  inspirited  the  wary  wolves.  Out 
of  the  pale  gloom  gaunt  white  forms  emerged,  agile 
and  stealthy,  slipping  on  velvet-padded  feet,  closer, 
closer,  closer.  The  dogs  wailed  in  terror. 

"  Into  the  tepee!  "  yelled  Rea, 

Jones  plunged  in  after  his  comrade.  The  despair 
ing  howls  of  the  dogs,  drowned  in  more  savage, 

186 


Success  and  Failure 


frightful  sounds,  knelled  one  tragedy  and  foreboded 
a  more  terrible  one.  Jones  looked  out  to  see  a  white 
mass,  like  leaping  waves  of  a  rapid. 

"  Pump  lead  into  thet!  "  cried  Rea. 

Rapidly  Jones  emptied  his  rifle  into  the  white 
fray.  The  mass  split;  gaunt  wolves  leaped  high  to 
fall  back  dead;  others  wriggled  and  limped  away; 
others  dragged  their  hind  quarters;  others  darted 
at  the  tepee. 

"  No  more  cartridges !  "  yelled  Jones. 

The  giant  grabbed  the  ax,  and  barred  the  door 
of  the  tepee.  Crash!  the  heavy  iron  cleaved  the 
skull  of  the  first  brute.  Crash !  it  lamed  the  second. 
Then  Rea  stood  in  the  narrow  passage  between  the 
rocks,  waiting  with  uplifted  ax.  A  shaggy,  white 
demon,  snapping  his  jaws,  sprang  like  a  dog.  A 
sodden,  thudding  blow  met  him  and  he  slunk  away 
without  a  cry.  Another  rabid  beast  launched  his 
white  body  at  the  giant.  Like  a  flash  the  ax 
descended.  In  agony  the  wolf  fell,  to  spin  round  and 
round,  running  on  his  hind  legs,  while  his  head  and 
shoulders  and  forelegs  remained  in  the  snow.  His 
back  was  broken. 

Jones  crouched  in  the  opening  of  the  tepee,  knife 
in  hand.  He  doubted  his  senses.  This  was  a  night 
mare.  He  saw  two  wolves  leap  at  once.  He  heard 
the  crash  of  the  ax;  he  saw  one  wolf  go  down  and  the 

187 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


other  slip  under  the  swinging  weapon  to  grasp  the 
giant's  hip.  Jones's  heard  the  rend  of  cloth,  and 
then  he  pounced  like  a  cat,  to  drive  his  knife  into  the 
body  of  the  beast.  Another  nimble  foe  lunged  at 
Rea,  to  sprawl  broken  and  limp  from  the  iron.  It 
was  a  silent  fight.  The  giant  shut  the  way  to  his 
comrade  and  the  calves ;  he  made  no  outcry ;  he  needed 
but  one  blow  for  every  beast;  magnificent,  he  wielded 
death  and  faced  it — silent.  He  brought  the  white 
wild  dogs  of  the  north  down  with  lightning  blows, 
and  when  no  more  sprang  to  the  attack,  down  on  the 
frigid  silence  he  rolled  his  cry:  "  Ho!  Ho!  " 

"  Rea!  Rea!  how  is  it  with  you?"  called  Jones, 
climbing  out. 

"  A  torn  coat — no  more,  my  lad." 

Three  of  the  poor  dogs  were  dead;  the  fourth  and 
last  gasped  at  the  hunters  and  died. 

The  wintry  night  became  a  thing  of  half-conscious 
past,  a  dream  to  the  hunters,  manifesting  its  reality 
only  by  the  stark,  stiff  bodies  of  wolves,  white  in 
the  gray  morning. 

"  If  we  can  eat,  we'll  make  the  cabin,"  said  Rea. 
"  But  the  dogs  an'  wolves  are  poison." 

"  Shall  I  kill  a  calf?"  asked  Jones. 

"  Ho !  Ho !  when  hell  freezes  over — if  we  must !  " 

Jones  found  one  45-90  cartridge  in  all  the  outfit, 
and  with  that  in  the  chamber  of  his  rifle,  once  more 

188 


Success  and  Failure 


struck  south.  Spruce  trees  began  to  show  on  the 
barrens  and  caribou  trails  roused  hope  in  the  hearts 
of  the  hunters. 

"Look!  in  the  spruces,"  whispered  Jones,  drop 
ping  the  rope  of  his  sled.  Among  the  black  trees 
gray  objects  moved. 

"  Caribou !"  said  Rea.  "Hurry!  Shoot!  Don't 
miss!" 

But  Jones  waited.  He  knew  the  value  of  the  last 
bullet.  He  had  a  hunter's  patience.  When  the  cari 
bou  came  out  in  an  open  space,  Jones  whistled.  It 
was  then  the  rifle  grew  set  and  fixed;  it  was  then  the 
red  fire  belched  forth. 

At  four  hundred  yards  the  bullet  took  some  frac 
tion  of  time  to  strike.  What  a  long  time  that  was ! 
Then  both  hunters  heard  the  spiteful  spat  of  the  lead. 
The  caribou  fell,  jumped  up,  ran  down  the  slope,  and 
fell  again  to  rise  no  more. 

An  hour  of  rest,  with  fire  and  meat,  changed  the 
world  to  the  hunters;  still  glistening,  it  yet  had  lost 
its  bitter  cold,  its  deathlike  clutch. 

"What's  this?"  cried  Jones. 

Moccasin  tracks  of  different  sizes,  all  toeing  north, 
arrested  the  hunters. 

"Pointed  north!  Wonder  what  thet  means?" 
Rea  plodded  on,  doubtfully  shaking  his  head. 

Night    again,    clear,    cold,    silver,    starlit,    silent 

189 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


night!  The  hunters  rested,  listening  ever  for  the 
haunting  mourn.  Day  again,  white,  passionless, 
monotonous,  silent  day!  The  hunters  traveled  on — 
on — on,  ever  listening  for  the  haunting  mourn. 

Another  dusk  found  them  within  thirty  miles  of 
their  cabin.  Only  one  more  day  now. 

Rea  talked  of  his  furs,  of  the  splendid  white  furs 
he  could  not  bring.  Jones  talked  of  his  little  musk- 
oxen  calves  and  joyfully  watched  them  dig  for  moss 
in  the  snow. 

Vigilance  relaxed  that  night.  Outworn  nature 
rebelled,  and  both  hunters  slept. 

Rea  awoke  first,  and  kicking  off  the  blankets,  went 
out.  His  terrible  roar  of  rage  made  Jones  fly  to  his 
side. 

Under  the  very  shadow  of  the  tepee,  where  the 
little  musk-oxen  had  been  tethered,  they  lay  stretched 
out  pathetically  on  crimson  snow — stiff  stone-cold, 
dead.  Moccasin  tracks  told  the  story  of  the  tragedy. 

Jones  leaned  against  his  comrade. 

The  giant  raised  his  huge  fist. 

"  Jackoway  out  of  wood !  Jackoway  out  of 
wood!" 

Then  he  choked. 

The  north  wind,  blowing  through  the  thin,  dark, 
weird  spruce  trees,  moaned  and  seemed  to  sigh, 
"Naza!  Naza !  Naza!" 

190 


W 


CHAPTER    XI 

ON  TO  THE  SIWASH 

«\  "Y  JHO  all  was  doin'  the  talkin'  last  night?  " 
asked  Frank  next  morning,  when  we 
were  having  a  late  breakfast.  "  Cause 
I've  a  joke  on  somebody.  Jim  he  talks  in  his  sleep 
often,  an'  last  night  after  you  did  finally  get  settled 
down,  Jim  he  up  in  his  sleep  an'  says :  '  Shore  he's 
windy  as  hell !  Shore  he's  windy  as  hell ' !  " 

At  this  cruel  exposure  of  his  subjective  wanderings, 
Jim  showed  extreme  humiliation;  but  Frank's  eyes 
fairly  snapped  with  the  fun  he  got  out  of  telling  it. 
The  genial  foreman  loved  a  joke.  The  week's  stay 
at  Oak,  in  which  we  all  became  thoroughly 
acquainted,  had  presented  Jim  as  always  the  same 
quiet  character,  easy,  slow,  silent,  lovable.  In  his 
brother  cowboy,  however,  we  had  discovered  in 
addition  to  his  fine,  frank,  friendly  spirit,  an  over 
whelming  fondness  for  playing  tricks.  This  boyish 
mischievousness,  distinctly  Arizonian,  reached  its 
acme  whenever  it  tended  in  the  direction  of  our 
serious  leader. 

Lawson  had  been  dispatched  on  some  mysterious 
errand  about  which  my  curiosity  was  all  in  vain. 

191 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


The  order  of  the  day  was  leisurely  to  get  in 
readiness,  and  pack  for  our  journey  to  the  Siwash 
on  the  morrow.  I  watered  my  horse,  played  with  the 
hounds,  knocked  about  the  cliffs,  returned  to  the 
cabin,  and  lay  down  on  my  bed.  Jim's  hands  were 
white  with  flour.  He  was  kneading  dough,  and  had 
several  low,  flat  pans  on  the  table.  Wallace  and 
Jones  strolled  in,  and  later  Frank,  and  they  all  took 
various  positions  before  the  fire.  I  saw  Frank,  with 
the  quickness  of  a  sleight-of-hand  performer,  slip 
one  of  the  pans  of  dough  on  the  chair  Jones  had 
placed  by  the  table.  Jim  did  not  see  the  action; 
Jones's  and  Wallace's  backs  were  turned  to  Frank, 
and  he  did  not  know  I  was  in  the  cabin.  The  con 
versation  continued  on  the  subject  of  Jones's  big  bay 
horse,  which,  hobbles  and  all,  had  gotten  ten  miles 
from  camp  the  night  before. 

"  Better  count  his  ribs  than  his  tracks,"  said 
Frank,  and  went  on  talking  as  easily  and  naturally 
as  if  he  had  not  been  expecting  a  very  entertaining 
situation. 

But  no  one  could  ever  foretell  Colonel  Jones's 
actions.  He  showed  every  intention  of  seating  him 
self  in  the  chair,  then  walked  over  to  his  pack  to 
begin  searching  for  something  or  other.  Wallace, 
however,  promptly  took  the  seat;  and  what  began 
to  be  funnier  than  strange,  he  did  not  get  up.  Not 

192 


On  to  the  Siwash 


unlikely  this  circumstance  was  owing  to  the  fact 
that  several  of  the  rude  chairs  had  soft  layers  of  old 
blanket  tacked  on  them.  Whatever  were  Frank's 
internal  emotions,  he  presented  a  remarkably  placid 
and  commonplace  exterior;  but  when  Jim  began  to 
search  for  the  missing  pan  of  dough,  the  joker  slowly 
sagged  in  his  chair. 

"  Shore  that  beats  hell !  "  said  Jim.  "  I  had  three 
pans  of  dough.  Could  the  pup  have  taken  one?  " 

Wallace  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  bread  pan  clat 
tered  to  the  floor,  with  a  clang  and  a  clank,  evidently 
protesting  against  the  indignity  it  had  suffered. 
But  the  dough  stayed  with  Wallace,  a  great 
white  conspicuous  splotch  on  his  corduroys.  Jim, 
Frank  and  Jones  all  saw  it  at  once. 

"Why — Mr.  Wai — lace — you  set — in  the 
dough !  "  exclaimed  Frank,  in  a  queer,  strangled 
voice.  Then  he  exploded,  while  Jim  fell  over  the 
table. 

It  seemed  that  those  two  Arizona  rangers, 
matured  men  though  they  were,  would  die  of  convul 
sions.  I  laughed  with  them,  and  so  did  Wallace, 
while  he  brought  his  bone-handled  bowie  knife  into 
novel  use.  Buffalo  Jones  never  cracked  a  smile, 
though  he  did  remark  about  the  waste  of  good  flour. 

Frank's  face  was  a  study  for  a  psychologist  when 
Jim  actually  apologized  to  Wallace  for  being  so  care- 

193 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


less  with  his  pans.  I  did  not  betray  Frank,  but  I 
resolved  to  keep  a  still  closer  watch  on  him.  It  was 
partially  because  of  this  uneasy  sense  of  his  trickiness 
in  the  fringe  of  my  mind  that  I  made  a  discovery. 
My  sleeping-bag  rested  on  a  raised  platform  in  one 
corner,  and  at  a  favorable  moment  I  examined  the 
bag.  It  had  not  been  tampered  with,  but  I  noticed 
a  string  running  out  through  a  chink  between  the 
logs.  I  found  it  came  from  a  thick  layer  of  straw 
under  my  bed,  and  had  been  tied  to  the  end  of  a 
flatly  coiled  lasso.  Leaving  the  thing  as  it  was,  I 
went  outside  and  carelessly  chased  the  hounds  round 
the  cabin.  The  string  stretched  along  the  logs  to 
another  chink,  where  it  returned  into  the  cabin  at  a 
point  near  where  Frank  slept.  No,  great  power  of 
deduction  was  necessary  to  acquaint  me  with  full 
details  of  the  plot  to  spoil  my  slumbers.  So  I 
patiently  awaited  developments. 

Lawson  rode  in  near  sundown  with  the  carcasses 
of  two  beasts  of  some  species  hanging  over  his  sad 
dle.  It  turned  out  that  Jones  had  planned  a  surprise 
for  Wallace  and  me,  and  it  could  hardly  have  been 
a  more  enjoyable  one,  considering  the  time  and  place. 
We  knew  he  had  a  flock  of  Persian  sheep  on  the 
south  slope  of  Buckskin,  but  had  no  idea  it  was 
within  striking  distance  of  Oak.  Lawson  had  that 
day  hunted  up  the  shepherd  and  his  sheep,  to  return 

1P4 


On  to  the  Siwash 


to  us  with  two  sixty-pound  Persian  lambs.  We 
feasted  at  suppertime  on  meat  which  was  sweet,  juicy, 
very  tender  and  of  as  rare  a  flavor  as  that  of  the 
Rocky  Mountain  sheep. 

My  state  after  supper  was  one  of  huge  enjoyment, 
and  with  intense  interest  I  awaited  Frank's  first  spar 
for  an  opening.  It  came  presently,  in  a  lull  of  the 
conversation. 

"  Saw  a  big  rattler  run  under  the  cabin  to-day," 
he  said,  as  if  he  were  speaking  of  one  of  Old  Baldy's 
shoes.  "  I  tried  to  get  a  wnack  at  him,  but  he  oozed 
away  too  quick." 

u  Shore  I  seen  him  often,"  put  in  Jim.  Good, 
old,  honest  Jim,  led  away  by  his  trickster  comrade! 
It  was  very  pbin.  So  I  was  to  be  frightened  by 
snakes. 

4  These  old  canon  beds  are  ideal  dens  for  rattle 
snakes,"  chimed  in  my  scientific  California  friend. 
"  I  have  found  several  dens,  but  did  not  molest  them, 
as  this  is  a  particularly  dangerous  time  of  the  year  to 
meddle  with  the  reptiles.  Quite  likely  there's  a  den 
under  the  cabin." 

While  he  made  this  remarkable  statement,  he  had 
the  grace  to  hide  his  face  in  a  huge  puff  of  smoke. 
He,  too,  was  in  the  plot.  I  waited  for  Jones  to  come 
out  with  some  ridiculous  theory  or  fact  concerning 
the  particular  species  of  snake,  but  as  he  did  not 

195 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


speak,  I  concluded  they  had  wisely  left  him  out  of 
the  secret.  After  mentally  debating  a  moment,  I 
decided,  as  it  was  a  very  harmless  joke,  to  help  Frank 
to  the  fulfillment  of  his  enjoyment. 

"Rattlesnakes!"  I  exclaimed.  u  Heavens!  I'd 
die  if  I  heard  one,  let  alone  seeing  it.  A  big  rattler 
jumped  at  me  one  day,  and  I've  never  recovered  from 
the  shock." 

Plainly,  Frank  was  delighted  to  hear  of  my  antipa 
thy  and  my  unfortunate  experience,  and  he  proceeded 
to  expatiate  on  the  viciousness  of  rattlesnakes,  partic 
ularly  those  of  Arizona.  If  I  had  believed  the 
succeeding  stories,  emanating  from  the  fertile  brains 
of  those  three  fellows,  I  should  have  made  certain 
that  Arizona  canons  were  Brazilian  jungles.  Frank's 
parting  shot,  sent  in  a  mellow,  kind  voice,  was  the 
best  point  in  the  whole  trick.  "  Now,  I'd  be  nervous 
if  I  had  a  sleepin'-bag  like  yours,  because  it's  just 
the  place  for  a  rattler  to  ooze  into." 

In  the  confusion  and  dim  light  of  bedtime  I  con 
trived  to  throw  the  end  of  my  lasso  over  the  horn  of 
a  saddle  hanging  on  the  wall,  with  the  intention  of 
augmenting  the  noise  I  soon  expected  to  create;  and 
I  placed  my  automatic  rifle  and  .38  S.  and  W.  Special 
within  easy  reach  of  my  hand.  Then  I  crawled  into 
my  bag  and  composed  myself  to  listen.  Frank  soon 
began  to  snore,  so  brazenly,  so  fictitiously,  that  I 

196 


On  to  the  Siwash 


wondered  at  the  man's  absorbed  intensity  in  his 
joke;  and  I  was  at  great  pains  to  smother  in  my 
breast  a  violent  burst  of  riotous  merriment.  Jones's 
snores,  however,  were  real  enough,  and  this  made 
me  enjoy  the  situation  all  the  more;  because  if  he 
did  not  show  a  mild  surprise  when  the  catastrophe 
fell,  I  would  greatly  miss  my  guess.  I  knew  the 
three  wily  conspirators  were  wide-awake.  Suddenly 
I  felt  a  movement  in  the  straw  under  me  and  a  faint 
rustling.  It  was  so  soft,  so  sinuous,  that  if  I  had 
not  known  it  was  the  lasso,  I  would  assuredly  have 
been  frightened.  I  gave  a  little  jump,  such  as  one 
will  make  quickly  in  bed.  Then  the  coil  ran  out 
from  under  the  straw.  How  subtly  suggestive  of  a 
snake!  I  made  a  slight  outcry,  a  big  jump,  paused 
a  moment  for  effectiveness — in  which  time  Frank 
forgot  to  snore — then  let  out  a  tremendous  yell, 
grabbed  my  guns,  sent  twelve  thundering  shots 
through  the  roof  and  pulled  my  lasso. 

Crash!  the  saddle  came  down,  to  be  followed  by 
sounds  not  on  Frank's  programme  and  certainly  not 
calculated  upon  by  me.  But  they  were  all  the  more 
effective.  I  gathered  that  Lawson,  who  was  not  in 
the  secret,  and  who  was  a  nightmare  sort  of  sleeper 
anyway,  had  knocked  over  Jim's  table,  with  its  array 
of  pots  and  pans  and  then,  unfortunately  for  Jones, 
had  kicked  that  innocent  person  in  the  stomach. 

197 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


As  I  lay  there  in  my  bag,  the  very  happiest  fellow 
in  the  wide  world,  the  sound  of  my  mirth  was  as  the 
buzz  of  the  wings  of  a  fly  to  the  mighty  storm.  Roar 
on  roar  filled  the  cabin. 

When  the  three  hypocrites  recovered  sufficiently 
from  the  startling  climax  to  calm  Lawson,  who 
swore  the  cabin  had  been  attacked  by  Indians ;  when 
Jones  stopped  roaring  long  enough  to  hear  it  was 
only  a  harmless  snake  that  had  caused  the  trouble, 
we  hushed  to  repose  once  more — not,  however,  with 
out  hearing  some  trenchant  remarks  from  the  boiling 
Colonel  anent  fun  and  fools,  and  the  indubitable  fact 
that  there  was  not  a  rattlesnake  on  Buckskin 
Mountain. 

Long  after  this  explosion  had  died  away,  I  heard, 
or  rather  felt,  a  mysterious  shudder  or  tremor 
of  the  cabin,  and  I  knew  that  Frank  and  Jim  were 
shaking  with  silent  laughter.  On  my  own  score,  I 
determined  to  find  if  Jones,  in  his  strange  make-up, 
had  any  sense  of  humor,  or  interest  in  life,  or  feeling, 
or  love  that  did  not  center  and  hinge  on  four-footed 
beasts.  In  view  of  the  rude  awakening  from  what, 
no  doubt,  were  pleasant  dreams  of  wonderful  white 
and  green  animals,  combining  the  intelligence  of  man 
and  strength  of  brutes — a  new  species  creditable  to 
his  genius — I  was  perhaps  unjust  in  my  conviction 
as  to  his  lack  of  humor.  And  as  to  the  other  ques- 

198 


On  to  the  Siwash 


tion,  whether  or  not  he  had  any  real  human  feeling 
for  the  creatures  built  in  his  own  image,  that  was 
decided  very  soon  and  unexpectedly. 

The  following  morning,  as  soon  as  Lawson  got  in 
with  the  horses,  we  packed  and  started.  Rather 
sorry  was  I  to  bid  good-by  to  Oak  Spring.  Taking 
the  back  trail  of  the  Stewarts,  we  walked  the  horses 
all  day  up  a  slowly  narrowing,  ascending  canon.  The 
hounds  crossed  coyote  and  deer  trails  continually,  but 
made  no  break.  Sounder  looked  up  as  if  to  say  he 
associated  painful  reminiscences  with  certain  kinds 
of  ^cks.  At  the  head  of  the  canon  we  reached 
Limber  at  about  the  time  dusk  gathered,  and  we 
located  ^or  the  night.  Being  once  again  nearly  nine 
thousand  feet  high,  we  found  the  air  bitterly  cold, 
making  a  blazing  fire  most  acceptable. 

In  the  haste  to  get  supper  we  all  took  a  hand,  and 
some  one  threw  upon  our  tarpaulin  tablecloth  a  tin 
cup  of  butter  mixed  with  carbolic  acid — a  concoction 
Jones  had  used  to  bathe  the  sore  feet  of  the  dogs. 
Of  course  I  got  hold  of  this,  spread  a  generous  por 
tion  on  my  hot  biscuit,  placed  some  red-hot  beans  on 
that,  and  began  to  eat  like  a  hungry  hunter.  At  first 
I  thought  I  was  only  burned.  Then  I  recognized 
the  taste  and  burn  of  the  acid  and  knew  something 
was  wrong.  Picking  up  the  tin,  I  examined  it, 
smelled  the  pungent  odor,  and  felt  a  queer,  numb 

199 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


sense  of  fear.  This  lasted  only  for  a  moment,  as  I 
well  knew  the  use  and  power  of  the  acid,  and  had 
not  swallowed  enough  to  hurt  me.  I  was  about  to 
make  known  my  mistake  in  a  matter-of-fact  way, 
when  it  flashed  over  me  the  accident  could  be  made 
to  serve  a  turn. 

"  Jones!"  I  cried  hoarsely.  "What's  in  this 
butter?" 

"  Lord !  you  haven't  eaten  any  of  that.  Why,  I 
put  carbolic  acid  in  it." 

"  Oh — oh — oh — I'm  poisoned !  I  ate  nearly  all 
of  it!  Oh — I'm  burning  up!  I'm  dying!  "  With 
that  I  began  to  moan  and  rock  to  and  fro  and  hold 
my  stomach. 

Consternation  preceded  shock.  But  in  the  excite 
ment  of  the  moment,  Wallace — who,  though  badly 
scared,  retained  his  wits — made  for  me  with  a  can 
of  condensed  milk.  He  threw  me  back  with  no 
gentle  hand,  and  was  squeezing  the  life  out  of  me 
to  make  me  open  my  mouth,  when  I  gave  him  a  jab 
in  his  side.  I  imagined  his  surprise,  as  this  peculiar 
reception  of  his  first-aid-to-the-injured  made  him 
hold  off  to  take  a  look  at  me,  and  in  this  interval  I 
contrived  to  whisper  to  him :  "  Joke !  Joke !  you  idiot ! 
I'm  only  shamming.  I  want  to  see  if  I  can  scare 
Jones  and  get  even  with  Frank.  Help  me  out! 
Cry!  Get  tragic!" 

200 


On  to  the  Siwash 


From  that  moment  I  shall  always  believe  that  the 
stage  lost  a  great  tragedian  in  Wallace.  With  a 
magnificent  gesture  he  threw  the  can  of  condensed 
milk  at  Jones,  who  was  so  stunned  he  did  not  try  to 
dodge.  "  Thoughtless  man!  Murderer!  it's  too 
late!"  cried  Wallace,  laying  me  back  across  his 
knees.  "  It's  too  late.  His  teeth  are  locked.  He's 
far  gone.  Poor  boy!  poor  boy!  Who's  to  tell  his 
mother?" 

I  could  see  from  under  my  hat-brim  that  the 
solemn,  hollow  voice  had  penetrated  the  cold  exterior 
of  the  plainsman.  He  could  not  speak;  he  clasped 
and  unclasped  his  big  hands  in  helpless  fashion. 
Frank  was  as  white  as  a  sheet.  This  was  simply 
delightful  to  me.  But  the  expression  of  miserable, 
impotent  distress  on  old  Jim's  sun-browned  face  was 
more  than  I  could  stand,  and  I  could  no  longer  keep 
up  the  deception.  Just  as  Wallace  cried  out  to  Jones 
to  pray — I  wished  then  I  had  not  weakened  so 
soon — I  got  up  and  walked  to  the  fire. 

"  Jim,  I'll  have  another  biscuit,  please." 

His  under  jaw  dropped,  then  he  nervously  shov 
eled  biscuits  at  me.  Jones  grabbed  my  hand  and 
cried  out  with  a  voice  that  was  new  to  me:  "You 
can  eat?  You're  better?  You'll  get  over  it?  " 

"  Sure.    Why,  carbolic  acid  never  phases  me.    I've 

often  used  it  for  rattlesnake  bites,     I  did  not  tell 

201 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


you,  but  that  rattler  at  the  cabin  last  night  actually 
bit  me,  and  I  used  carbolic  to  cure  the  poison." 

Frank  mumbled  something  about  horses,  and 
faded  into  the  gloom.  As  for  Jones,  he  looked  at 
me  rather  incredulously,  and  the  absolute,  almost 
childish  gladness  he  manifested  because  I  had  been 
snatched  from  the  grave,  made  me  regret  my  deceit, 
and  satisfied  me  forever  on  one  score. 

On  awakening  in  the  morning  I  found  frost  half 
an  inch  thick  covered  my  sleeping-bag,  whitened  the 
ground,  and  made  the  beautiful  silver  spruce  trees 
silver  in  hue  as  well  as  in  name. 

We  were  getting  ready  for  an  early  (:  .  t,  when 
two  riders,  with  pack-horses  jogging  after  ;hem, 
came  down  the  trail  from  the  direction  of  Oak  Spring. 
They  proved  to  be  Jeff  Clarke,  the  wild-horse  wran 
gler  mentioned  by  the  Stewarts,  and  his  helper. 
They  were  on  the  way  into  the  breaks  for  a  string  of 
pintos.  Clarke  was  a  short,  heavily  bearded  man,  of 
jovial  aspect.  He  said  he  had  met  the  Stewarts  going 
into  Fredonia,  and  being  advised  of  our  destination, 
had  hurried  to  come  up  with  us.  As  we  did  not 
know,  except  in  a  general  way,  where  we  were  making 
for,  the  meeting  was  a  fortunate  event. 

Our  camping  site  had  been  close  to  the  divide 
made  by  one  of  the  long,  wooded  ridges  sent  off  by 
Buckskin  Mountain,  and  soon  we  were  descending 

202 


On  to  the  Smash 


again.  We  rode  half  a  mile  down  a  timbered  slope, 
and  then  out  into  a  beautiful,  flat  forest  of  gigantic 
pines.  Clarke  informed  us  it  was  a  level  bench  some 
ten  miles  long,  running  out  from  the  slopes  of  Buck 
skin  to  face  the  Grand  Canon  on  the  south,  and  the 
breaks  of  the  Siwash  on  the  west.  For  two  hours 
we  rode  between  the  stately  lines  of  trees,  and  the 
hoofs  of  the  horses  gave  forth  no  sound.  A  long, 
silvery  grass,  sprinkled  with  smiling  bluebells,  cov 
ered  the  ground,  except  close  under  the  pines,  where 
soft  red  mats  invited  lounging  and  rest.  We  saw 
numerous  deer,  great  gray  mule  deer,  almost  as  large 
as  elk.  j  .es  said  they  had  been  crossed  with  elk 
once,  vvhich  accounted  for  their  size.  I  did  not  see 
a  stump,  or  a  burned  tree,  or  a  windfall  during  the 
ride. 

Clarke  led  us  to  the  rim  of  the  canon.  Without 
any  preparation — for  the  giant  trees  hid  the  open 
sky — we  rode  right  out  to  the  edge  of  the  tremendous 
chasm.  At  first  I  did  not  seem  to  think;  my  faculties 
were  benumbed;  only  the  pure  sensorial  instinct  of 
the  savage  who  sees,  but  does  not  feel,  made  me  take 
note  of  the  abyss.  Not  one  of  our  party  had  ever 
seen  the  canon  from  this  side,  and  not  one  of  us  said 
a  word.  But  Clarke  kept  talking. 

"  Wild  place  this  is  hyar,"  he  said.  "  Seldom  any 
one  but  horse  wranglers  gits  over  this  far.  I've  hed 

203 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


a  bunch  of  wild  pintos  down  in  a  canon  below  fer 
two  years.  I  reckon  you  can't  find  no  better  place 
fer  camp  than  right  hyar.  Listen.  Do  you  hear  thet 
rumble?  Thet's  Thunder  Falls.  You  can  only  see 
it  from  one  place,  an'  thet  far  off,  but  thar's  brooks 
you  can  git  at  to  water  the  hosses.  Fer  thet  matter, 
you  can  ride  up  the  slopes  an'  git  snow.  If  you  can 
git  snow  close,  it'd  be  better,  fer  thet's  an  all-fired  bad 
trail  down  fer  water." 

"  Is  this  the  cougar  country  the  Stewarts  talked 
about?  "  asked  Jones. 

"  Reckon  it  is.  Cougars  is  as  thick  in  hyar  as 
rabbits  in  a  spring-hole  canon.  I'm  on  the  way 
now  to  bring  up  my  pintos.  The  cougars  hev  cost 
me  hundreds — I  might  say  thousands  of  dollars.  I 
lose  hosses  all  the  time ;  an'  damn  me,  gentlemen,  I've 
never  raised  a  colt.  This  is  the  greatest  cougar  coun 
try  in  the  West.  Look  at  those  yellow  crags !  Thar's 
where  the  cougars  stay.  No  one  ever  hunted  'em.  It 
seems  to  me  they  can't  be  hunted.  Deer  and  wild 
hosses  by  the  thousand  browse  hyar  on  the  mountain 
in  summer,  an'  down  in  the  breaks  in  winter.  The 
cougars  live  fat.  You'll  find  deer  and  wild-hoss 
carcasses  all  over  this  country.  You'll  find  lions's 
dens  full  of  bones.  You'll  find  warm  deer  left  for 
the  coyotes.  But  whether  you'll  find  the  cougars,  I 
can't  say.  I  fetched  dogs  in  hyar,  an'  tried  to  ketch 

204 


On  to  the  Siwash 


Old  Tom.  I've  put  them  on  his  trail  an'  never  saw 
hide  nor  hair  of  them  again.  Jones,  it's  no  easy 
huntin'  hyar." 

"  Well,  I  can  see  that,"  replied  our  leader.  "  I 
never  hunted  lions  in  such  a  country,  and  never  knew 
any  one  who  had.  We'll  have  to  learn  how.  We've 
the  time  and  the  dogs,  all  we  need  is  the  stuff  in  us." 

"  I  hope  you  fellars  git  some  cougars,  an'  I  believe 
you  will.  Whatever  you  do,  kill  Old  Tom." 

"  We'll  catch  him  alive.  We're  not  on  a  hunt  to 
kill  cougars,"  said  Jones. 

"What!  "  exclaimed  Clarke,  looking  from  Jones 
to  us.  His  rugged  face  wore  a  half-smile. 

"  Jones  ropes  cougars,  an'  ties  them  up,"  replied 
Frank. 

"  I'm if  he'll  ever  rope  Old  Tom," 

burst  out  Clarke,  ejecting  a  huge  quid  of  tobacco. 
"  Why,  man  alive !  it'd  be  the  death  of  you  to  git 
near  thet  old  villain.  I  never  seen  him,  but  I've 
seen  his  tracks  fer  five  years.  They're  larger 
than  any  hoss  tracks  you  ever  seen.  He'll  weigh 
over  three  hundred,  thet  old  cougar.  Hyar,  take 
a  look  at  my  man's  hoss.  Look  at  his  back.  See 
them  marks?  Wai,  Old  Tom  made  them,  an'  he 
made  them  right  in  camp  last  fall,  when  we  were 
down  in  the  canon." 

The  mustang  to  which  Clarke  called  our  attention 

205 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


was  a  sleek  cream  and  white  pinto.  Upon  his  side 
and  back  were  long  regular  scars,  some  an  inch  wide, 
and  bare  of  hair. 

"  How  on  earth  did  he  get  rid  of  the  cougar?  " 
asked  Jones. 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he  got  scared  of  the 
dogs.  It  took  thet  pinto  a  year  to  git  well.  Old 
Tom  is  a  real  lion.  He'll  kill  a  full-grown  hoss  when 
he  wants,  but  a  yearlin'  colt  is  his  especial  likin'. 
You're  sure  to  run  acrost  his  trail,  an'  you'll  never 
miss  it.  Wai,  if  I  find  any  cougar  sign  dowr  in  the 
canon,  I'll  build  two  fires  so  as  to  let  you  know. 
Though  no  hunter,  I'm  tolerably  acquainted  with  the 
varmints.  The  deer  an'  hosses  are  rangin'  the  forest 
slopes  now,  an'  I  think  the  cougars  come  up  over 
the  rim  rock  at  night  an1  go  back  in  the  mornin'. 
Anyway,  if  your  dogs  can  follow  the  trails,  you've  got 
sport,  an'  more'n  sport  comin'  to  you.  But  take  it 
from  me — don't  try  to  rope  Old  Tom." 

After  all  our  disappointments  in  the  beginning  of 
the  expedition,  our  hardship  on  the  desert,  our  trials 
with  the  dogs  and  horses,  it  was  real  pleasure  to  make 
permanent  camp  with  wood,  water  and  feed  at  hand, 
a  soul-stirring,  ever-changing  picture  before  us,  and 
the  certainty  that  we  were  in  the  wild  lairs  of  the 
lions — among  the  Lords  of  the  Crags! 

While  we  were  unpacking,  every  now  and  then  I 

200 


On  to  the  Si>wash 


would  straighten  up  and  gaze  out  beyond.  I  knew 
the  outlook  was  magnificent  and  sublime  beyond 
words,  but  as  yet  I  had  not  begun  to  understand  it. 
The  great  pine  trees,  growing  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  rim,  received  their  full  quota  of  appreciation 
from  me,  as  did  the  smooth,  flower-decked  aisles 
leading  back  into  the  forest. 

The  location  we  selected  for  camp  was  a  large 
glade,  fifty  paces  or  more  from  the  precipice — far 
enough,  the  cowboys  averred,  to  keep  our  traps  from 
being  , Ducked  down  by  some  of  the  whirlpool  winds, 
native  to  the  spot.  In  the  center  of  this  glade  stood 
a  huge  gnarled  and  blasted  old  pine,  that  certainly 
by  virtue  of  hoary  locks  and  bent  shoulders  had 
earned  the  right  to  stand  aloof  from  his  younger  com 
panions.  Under  this  tree  we  placed  all  our  belong 
ings,  and  then,  as  Frank  so  felicitously  expressed  it, 
we  were  free  to  "  ooze  round  an'  see  things." 

I  believe  I  had  a  sort  of  subconscious,  selfish  idea 
that  some  one  would  steal  the  canon  away  from  me  if 
I  did  not  hurry  to  make  it  mine  forever;  so  I  sneaked 
off,  and  sat  under  a  pine  growing  on  the  very  rim. 
At  first  glance,  I  saw  below  me,  seemingly  miles 
away,  a  wild  chaos  of  red  and  buff  mesas  rising  out 
of  dark  purple  clefts.  Beyond  these  reared  a  long, 
irregular  tableland,  running  south  almost  to  the 
extent  of  my  vision,  which  I  remembered  Clarke  had 

207 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


called  Powell's  Plateau.  I  remembered,  also,  that 
he  had  said  it  was  twenty  miles  distant,  was  almost 
that  many  miles  long,  was  connected  to  the  mainland 
of  Buckskin  Mountain  by  a  very  narrow  wooded  dip 
of  land  called  the  Saddle,  and  that  it  practically  shut 
us  out  of  a  view  of  the  Grand  Canon  proper.  If 
that  was  true,  what,  then,  could  be  the  name  of  the 
canon  at  my  feet?  Suddenly,  as  my  gaze  wandered 
from  point  to  point,  it  was  arrested  by  a  dark,  conical 
mountain,  white-tipped,  which  rose  in  the  notch  of 
the  Saddle.  What  could  it  mean?  Were  there  such 
things  as  canon  mirages?  Then  the  dim  purple  of 
its  color  told  of  its  great  distance  from  me;  and  then 
its  familiar  shape  told  I  had  come  into  my  own 
again — I  had  found  my  old  friend  once  more.  For 
in  all  that  plateau  there  was  only  one  snow-capped 
mountain — the  San  Francisco  Peak ;  and  there,  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty,  perhaps  two  hundred  miles  away,  far 
beyond  the  Grand  Canon,  it  smiled  brightly  at  me, 
as  it  had  for  days  and  days  across  the  desert. 

Hearing  Jones  yelling  for  somebody  or  everybody, 
I  jumped  up  to  find  a  procession  heading  for  a  point 
farther  down  the  rim  wall,  where  our  leader  stood 
waving  his  arms.  The  excitement  proved  to  have 
been  caused  by  cougar  signs  at  the  head  of  the  trail 
where  Clarke  had  started  down. 

"  They're  here,  boys,   they're  here,"  Jones  kept 


On  to  the  SiwasTi 


repeating,  as  he  showed  us  different  tracks.  "  This 
sign  is  not  so  old.  Boys,  to-morrow  we'll  get  up  a 
lion,  sure  as  you're  born.  And  if  we  do,  and  Sounder 
sees  him,  then  we've  got  a  lion-dog!  I'm  afraid  of 
Don.  He  has  a  fine  nose;  he  can  run  and  fight,  but 
he's  been  trained  to  deer,  and  maybe  I  can't  break 
him.  Moze  is  still  uncertain.  If  old  Jude  only 
hadn't  been  lamed !  She  would  be  the  best  of  the  lot. 
But  Sounder  is  our  hope.  I'm  almost  ready  to  swear 
by  him." 

All  this  was  too  much  for  me,  so  I  slipped  off  again 
to  be  alone,  and  this  time  headed  for  the  forest. 
Warm  patches  of  sunlight,  like  gold,  brightened  the 
ground ;  dark  patches  of  sky,  like  ocean  blue,  gleamed 
between  the  treetops.  Hardly  a  rustle  of  wind  in 
the  fine-toothed  green  branches  disturbed  the  quiet. 
When  I  got  fully  out  of  sight  of  camp,  I  started  to 
run  as  if  I  were  a  wild  Indian.  My  running  had  no 
aim;  just  sheer  mad  joy  of  the  grand  old  forest,  the 
smell  of  pine,  the  wild  silence  and  beauty  loosed  the 
spirit  in  me  so  it  had  to  run,  and  I  ran  with  it  till 
the  physical  being  failed. 

While  resting  on  a  fragrant  bed  of  pine  needles, 
endeavoring  to  regain  control  over  a  truant  mind, 
trying  to  subdue  the  encroaching  of  the  natural  man 
on  the  civilized  man,  I  saw  gray  objects  moving  under 
the  trees.  I  lost  them,  then  saw  them,  and  presently 

209 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


so  plainly  that,  with  delight  on  delight,  I  counted 
seventeen  deer  pass  through  an  open  arch  of  dark 
green.  Rising  to  my  feet,  I  ran  to  get  round  a  low 
mound.  They  saw  me  and  bounded  away  with 
prodigiously  long  leaps.  Bringing  their  forefeet 
together,  stiff-legged  under  them,  they  bounced  high, 
like  rubber  balls,  yet  they  were  graceful. 

The  forest  was  so  open  that  I  could  watch  them 
for  a  long  way;  and  as  I  circled  with  my  gaze,  a 
glimpse  of  something  white  arrested  my  attention. 
A  light,  grayish  animal  appeared  to  be  tearing  at 
an  old  stump.  Upon  nearer  view,  I  recognized  a 
wolf,  and  he  scented  or  sighted  me  at  the  same 
moment,  and  loped  off  into  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 
Approaching  the  spot  where  I  had  marked  him  I 
found  he  had  been  feeding  from  the  carcass  of  a 
horse.  The  remains  had  been  only  partly  eaten,  and 
were  of  an  animal  of  the  mustang  build  that  had 
evidently  been  recently  killed.  Frightful  lacerations 
under  the  throat  showed  where  a  lion  had  taken  fatal 
hold.  Deep  furrows  in  the  ground  proved  how  the 
mustang  had  sunk  his  hoofs,  reared  and  shaken  him 
self.  I  traced  roughly  defined  tracks  fifty  paces  to 
the  lee  of  a  little  bank,  from  which  I  concluded  the 
lion  had  sprung. 
T  gave  free  rein  to  my  imagination  and  saw  the 

forest  dark,  silent,  peopled  by  none  but  its  savage 

210 


On  to  the  Siwash 


denizens.  The  lion  crept  like  a  shadow,  crouched 
noiselessly  down,  then  leaped  on  his  sleeping  or 
browsing  prey.  The  lonely  night  stillness  split  to  a 
frantic  snort  and  scream  of  terror,  and  the  stricken 
mustang  with  his  mortal  enemy  upon  his  back,  dashed 
off  with  fierce,  wild  love  of  life.  As  he  went  he  felt 
his  foe  crawl  toward  his  neck  on  claws  of  fire ;  he  saw 
the  tawny  body  and  the  gleaming  eyes;  then  the 
cruel  teeth  snapped  with  the  sudden  bite,  and  the 
woodland  tragedy  ended. 

On  the  spot  I  conceived  an  antipathy  toward  lions. 
It  was  born  of  the  frightful  spectacle  of  what  had 
once  been  a  glossy,  prancing  mustang,  of  the  mute, 
sickening  proof  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  of  the 
law  that  levels  life. 

Upon  telling  my  camp-fellows  about  my  discovery, 
Jones  and  Wallace  walked  out  to  see  it,  while  Jim 
told  me  the  wolf  I  had  seen  was  a  "  lofer,"  one  of  the 
giant  buffalo  wolves  of  Buckskin;  and  if  I  would 
watch  the  carcass  in  the  mornings  and  evenings,  I 
would  "  shore  as  hell  get  a  plunk  at  him." 

White  pine  burned  in  a  beautiful,  clear  blue  flame, 
with  no  smoke;  and  in  the  center  of  the  campfire  left 
a  golden  heart.  But  Jones  would  not  have  any  sit 
ting  up,  and  hustled  us  off  to  bed,  saying  we  would 
be  "  blamed  "  glad  of  it  in  about  fifteen  hours  I 
crawled  into  my  sleeping-bag,  made  a  hood  of  my 

211 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Navajo  blanket,  and  peeping  from  under  it,  watched 
the  fire  and  the  flickering  shadows.  The  blaze  burned 
down  rapidly.  Then  the  stars  blinked.  Arizona  \US 
stars  would  be  moons  in  any  other  State!  How 
serene,  peaceful,  august,  infinite  and  wonderfully 
bright!  No  breeze  stirred  the  pines.  The  clear 
tinkle  of  the  cowbells  on  the  hobbled  horses  rang 
from  near  and  distant  parts  of  the  forest.  The 
prosaic  bell  of  the  meadow  and  the  pasture  brook, 
here,  in  this  environment,  jingled  out  different  notes, 
as  clear,  sweet,  musical  as  silver  bells. 


212 


CHAPTER    XII 

OLD  TOM 

A  daybreak  our  leader  routed  us  out.  The 
frost  mantled  the  ground  so  heavily  that  it 
looked  like  snow,  and  the  rare  atmosphere 
bit  like  the  breath  of  winter.  The  forest  stood 
solemn  and  gray;  the  canon  lay  wrapped  in  vapory 
slumber. 

Hot  biscuits  and  coffee,  with  a  chop  or  two  of  the 
delicious  Persian  lamb  meat,  put  a  less  Spartan  tinge 
on  the  morning,  and  gave  Wallace  and  me  more 
strength — we  needed  not  incentive — to  leave  the  fire, 
hustle  our  saddles  on  the  horses  and  get  in  line  with 
our  impatient  leader.  The  hounds  scampered  over 
the  frost,  shoving  their  noses  at  the  tufts  of  grass 
and  bluebells.  Lawson  and  Jim  remained  in  camp; 
the  rest  of  us  trooped  southwest. 

A  mile  or  so  in  that  direction,  the  forest  of  pine 
ended  abruptly,  and  a  wide  belt  of  low,  scrubby  oak 
trees,  breast  high  to  a  horse,  fringed  the  rim  of  the 
canon  and  appeared  to  broaden  out  and  grow  wavy 
southward.  The  edge  of  the  forest  was  as  dark  and 
regular  as  if  a  band  of  woodchoppers  had  trimmed 

213 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


it.  We  threaded  our  way  through  this  thicket,  all 
peering  into  the  bisecting  deer  trails  for  cougar  tracks 
in  the  dust. 

"Bring  the  dogs!  Hurry!"  suddenly  called 
Jones  from  a  thicket. 

We  lost  no  time  complying,  and  found  him  stand 
ing  in  a  trail,  with  his  eyes  on  the  sand.  "  Take  a 
look,  boys.  A  good-sized  male  cougar  passed  here 
last  night.  Hyar,  Sounder,  Don,  Moze,  come  on!  " 

It  was  a  nervous,  excited  pack  of  hounds.  Old 
Jude  got  to  Jones  first,  and  she  sang  out;  then 
Sounder  opened  with  his  ringing  bay,  and  before 
Jones  could  mount,  a  string  of  yelping  dogs  sailed 
straight  for  the  forest. 

"  Ooze  along,  boys !  "  yelled  Frank,  wheeling 
Spot. 

With  the  cowboy  leading,  we  strung  into  the  pines, 
and  I  found  myself  behind.  Presently  even  Wallace 
disappeared.  I  almost  threw  the  reins  at  Satan,  and 
yelled  for  him  to  go.  The  result  enlightened  me. 
Like  an  arrow  from  a  bow,  the  black  shot  forward. 
Frank  had  told  me  of  his  speed,  that  when  he  found 
his  stride  it  was  like  riding  a  flying  feather  to  be  on 
him.  Jones,  fearing  he  would  kill  me,  had  cautioned 
me  always  to  hold  him  in,  which  I  had  done.  Satan 
stretched  out  with  long,  graceful  motions;  he  did  not 
turn  aside  for  logs,  but  cleared  them  with  easy  and 

214 


Old  Tom 


powerful  spring,  and  he  swerved  only  slightly  for 
the  trees.  This  latter,  I  saw  at  once,  made  the  dan 
ger  for  me.  It  became  a  matter  of  saving  my  legs, 
and  dodging  branches.  The  imperative  need  of  this 
came  to  me  with  convincing  force.  I  dodged  a 
branch  on  one  tree,  only  to  be  caught  square  in  the 
middle  by  a  snag  on  another.  Crack!  If  the  snag 
had  not  broken,  Satan  would  have  gone  on  riderless, 
and  I  would  have  been  left  hanging,  a  pathetic  and 
drooping  monition  to  the  risks  of  the  hunt.  I  kept 
ducking  my  head,  now  and  then  falling  flat  over  the 
pommel  to  avoid  a  limb  that  would  have  brushed  me 
off,  and  hugging  the  flanks  of  my  horse  with  my 
knees.  Soon  I  was  at  Wallace's  heels,  and  had  Jones 
in  sight.  Now  and  then  glimpses  of  Frank's  white 
horse  gleamed  through  the  trees. 

We  began  to  circle  toward  the  south,  to  go  up  and 
down  shallow  hollows,  to  find  the  pines  thinning  out; 
then  we  shot  out  of  the  forest  into  the  scrubby  oak. 
Riding  through  this  brush  was  the  crudest  kind  of 
work,  but  Satan  kept  on  close  to  the  sorrel.  The 
hollows  began  to  get  deeper,  and  the  ridges  between 
them  narrower.  No  longer  could  we  keep  a  straight 
course. 

On  the  crest  of  one  of  the  ridges  we  found  Jones 
awaiting  us.  Jude,  Tige  and  Don  lay  panting  at  his 
feet.  Plainly  the  Colonel  appeared  vexed. 

215 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  Listen,"  he  said,  when  we  reined  in. 

We  complied,  but  did  not  hear  a  sound. 

"  Frank's  beyond  there  some  place,"  continued 
Jones,  "  but  I  can't  see  him,  nor  hear  the  hounds  any 
more.  Don  and  Tige  split  again  on  deer  trails.  Old 
Jude  hung  on  the  lion  track,  but  I  stopped  her  here. 
There's  something  I  can't  figure.  Moze  held  a  bee- 
line  southwest,  and  he  yelled  seldom.  Sounder 
gradually  stopped  baying.  Maybe  Frank  can  tell 
us  something." 

Jones's  long  drawn-out  signal  was  answered  from 
the  direction  he  expected,  and  after  a  little  time, 
Frank's  white  horse  shone  out  of  the  gray-green  of  a 
ridge  a  mile  away. 

This  drew  my  attention  to  our  position.  We  were 
on  a  high  ridge  out  in  the  open,  and  I  could  see  fifty 
miles  of  the  shaggy  slopes  of  Buckskin.  Southward 
the  gray,  ragged  line  seemed  to  stop  suddenly,  and 
beyond  it  purple  haze  hung  over  a  void  I  knew  to 
be  the  canon.  And  facing  west,  I  came,  at  last,  to 
understand  perfectly  the  meaning  of  the  breaks  in 
the  Siwash.  They  were  nothing  more  than  ravines 
that  headed  up  on  the  slopes  and  ran  down,  getting 
deeper  and  steeper,  though  scarcely  wider,  to  break 
into  the  canon.  Knife-crested  ridges  rolled  westward, 
wave  on  wave,  like  the  billows  of  a  sea.  I  appre 
ciated  that  these  breaks  were,  at  their  sources,  little 

216 


Old  Tom 


washes  easy  to  jump  across,  and  at  their  mouths  a 
mile  deep  and  impassable.  Huge  pine  trees  shaded 
these  gullies,  to  give  way  to  the  gray  growth  of 
stunted  oak,  which  in  turn  merged  into  the  dark 
green  of  pinon.  A  wonderful  country  for  deer  and 
lions,  it  seemed  to  me,  but  impassable,  all  but  impossi 
ble  for  a  hunter. 

Frank  soon  appeared,  brushing  through  the  bend 
ing  oaks,  and  Sounder  trotted  along  behind  him. 

"  Where's  Moze?  "  inquired  Jones. 

"  The  last  I  heard  of  Moze  he  was  out  of  the 
brush,  goin'  across  the  pinon  flat,  right  for  the  canon. 
He  had  a  hot  trail." 

"Well,  we're  certain  of  one  thing;  if  it  was  a 
deer,  he  won't  come  back  soon,  and  if  it  was  a  lion, 
he'll  tree  it,  lose  the  scent,  and  come  back.  We've 
got  to  show  the  hounds  a  lion  in  a  tree.  They'd  run 
a  hot  trail,  bump  into  a  tree,  and  then  be  at  fault. 
What  was  wrong  with  Sounder?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    He  came  back  to  me." 

"  We  can't  trust  him,  or  any  of  them  yet.  Still, 
maybe  they're  doing  better  than  we  know." 

The  outcome  of  the  chase,  so  favorably  started, 
was  a  disappointment,  which  we  all  felt  keenly. 
After  some  discussion,  we  turned  south,  intending 
to  ride  down  to  the  rim  wall  and  follow  it  back  to 
camp.  I  happened  to  turn  once,  perhaps  to  look 

217 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


again  at  the  far-distant  pink  cliffs  of  Utah,  or  the 
wave-like  dome  of  Trumbull  Mountain,  when  I  saw 
Moze  trailing  close  behind  me.  My  yell  halted  the 
Colonel. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!  "  ejaculated  he,  as  Moze 
hove  in  sight.  "  Come  hyar,  you  rascal !  " 

He  was  a  tired  dog,  but  had  no  sheepish  air  about 
him,  such  as  he  had  worn  when  lagging  in  from  deer 
chases.  He  wagged  his  tail,  and  flopped  down  to 
pant  and  pant,  as  if  to  say:  "What's  wrong  with 
you  guys?  " 

"  Boys,  for  two  cents  I'd  go  back  and  put  Jude 
on  that  trail.  It's  just  possible  that  Moze  treed  a 
lion.  But — well,  I  expect  there's  more  likelihood  of 
his  chasing  the  lion  over  the  rim;  so  we  may  as  well 
keep  on.  The  strange  thing  is  that  Sounder  wasn't 
with  Moze.  There  may  have  been  two  lions.  You 
see  we  are  up  a  tree  ourselves.  I  have  known  lions 
to  run  in  pairs,  and  also  a  mother  keep  four  two-year- 
olds  with  her.  But  such  cases  are  rare.  Here,  in 
this  country,  though,  maybe  they  run  round  and  have 
parties." 

As  we  left  the  breaks  behind  we  got  out  upon  a 
level  pinon  flat.  A  few  cedars  grew  with  the  pifions. 
Deer  runways  and  trails  were  thick. 

"  Boys,  look  at  that,"  said  Jones.  "  This  is  great 
lion  country,  the  best  I  ever  saw." 

218 


Old  Tom 


He  pointed  to  the  sunken,  red,  shapeless  remains 
of  two  horses,  and  near  them  a  ghastly  scattering  of 
bleached  bones.  "  A  lion-lair  right  here  on  the  flat. 
Those  two  horses  were  killed  early  this  spring,  and 
I  see  no  signs  of  their  carcasses  having  been  covered 
with  brush  and  dirt.  I've  got  to  learn  lion  lore  over 
again,  that's  certain." 

As  we  paused  at  the  head  of  a  depression,  which 
appeared  to  be  a  gap  in  the  rim  wall,  filled  with 
massed  pinons  and  splintered  piles  of  yellow  stone,  I 
caught  Sounder  going  through  some  interesting 
moves.  He  stopped  to  smell  a  bush.  Then  he  lifted 
his  head,  and  electrified  me  with  a  great,  deep- 
sounding  bay. 

uHi!  there,  listen  to  that!"  yelled  Jones. 
u  What's  Sounder  got?  Give  him  room — don't  run 
him  down.  Easy  now,  old  dog,  easy,  easy!  " 

Sounder  suddenly  broke  down  a  trail.  Moze 
howled,  Don  barked,  and  Tige  let  out  his  staccato 
yelp.  They  ran  through  the  brush  here,  there,  every 
where.  Then  all  at  once  old  Jude  chimed  in  with 
her  mellow  voice,  and  Jones  tumbled  off  his  horse. 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry!     There's  something  here." 

"  Here,  Colonel,  here's  the  bush  Sounder  smelt, 
and  there's  a  sandy  trail  under  it,"  I  called. 

"  There  go  Don  an'  Tige  down  into  the  break," 
cried  Frank.  "  They've  got  a  hot  scent!  " 

219 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Jones  stooped  over  the  place  I  designated,  to  jerk 
up  with  reddening  face,  and  as  he  flung  himself  into 
the  saddle  roared  out :  "  After  Sounder !  Old  Tom ! 
Old  Tom!  Old  Tom!" 

We  all  heard  Sounder,  and  at  the  moment  of 
Jones's  discovery,  Moze  got  the  scent  and  plunged 
ahead  of  us. 

"  Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  "  yelled  the  Colonel.  Frank 
sent  Spot  forward  like  a  white  streak.  Sounder 
called  to  us  in  irresistible  bays,  which  Moze 
answered,  and  then  crippled  Jude  bayed  in  baffled, 
impotent  distress. 

The  atmosphere  was  charged  with  that  lion.  As 
if  by  magic,  the  excitation  communicated  itself  to  all, 
and  men,  horses  and  dogs  acted  in  accord.  The  ride 
through  the  forest  had  been  a  jaunt.  This  was  a 
steeplechase,  a  mad,  heedless,  perilous,  glorious  race. 
And  we  had  for  a  pacemaker  a  cowboy  mounted  on  a 
tireless  mustang. 

Always  it  seemed  to  me,  while  the  wind  rushed,  the 
brush  whipped,  I  saw  Frank  far  ahead,  sitting  his 
saddle  as  if  glued  there,  holding  his  reins  loosely 
forward.  To  see  him  ride  so  was  a  beautiful  sight. 
Jones  let  out  his  Comanche  yell  at  every  dozen  jumps, 
and  Wallace  sent  back  a  thrilling  "  Waa-hoo-o !  " 
In  the  excitement  I  had  again  checked  my  horse,  and 
when  I  remembered,  and  loosed  the  bridle,  how  the 

220 


Old  Tom 


noble  animal  responded!  The  pace  he  settled  into 
dazed  me;  I  could  hardly  distinguish  the  deer  trail 
down  which  he  was  thundering.  I  lost  my  comrades 
ahead;  the  pinon  blurred  in  my  sight;  I  only  faintly 
heard  the  hounds.  It  occurred  to  me  we  were  making 
for  the  breaks,  but  I  did  not  think  of  checking  Satan. 
I  thought  only  of  flying  on  faster  and  faster. 

"  On!  On!  old  fellow!  Stretch  out!  Never  lose 
this  race !  We've  got  to  be  there  at  the  finish !  "  I 
called  to  Satan,  and  he  seemed  to  understand  and 
stretched  lower,  farther,  quicker. 

The  brush  pounded  my  legs  and  clutched  and  tore 
my  clothes;  the  wind  whistled;  the  pinon  branches 
cut  and  whipped  my  face.  Once  I  dodged  to  the  left, 
as  Satan  swerved  to  the  right,  with  the  result  that  I 
flew  out  of  the  saddle,  and  crashed  into  a  pinon  tree, 
which  marvelously  brushed  me  back  into  the  saddle. 
The  wild  yells  and  deep  bays  sounded  nearer.  Satan 
tripped  and  plunged  down,  throwing  me  as  grace 
fully  as  an  aerial  tumbler  wings  his  flight.  I  alighted 
in  a  bush,  without  feeling  of  scratch  or  pain.  As 
Satan  recovered  and  ran  past,  I  did  not  seek  to  make 
him  stop,  but  getting  a  good  grip  on  the  pommel,  I 
vaulted  up  again.  Once  more  he  raced  like  a  wild 
mustang.  And  from  nearer  and  nearer  in  front 
pealed  the  alluring  sounds  of  the  chase. 

Satan  was  creeping  close  to  Wallace  and  Jones, 
221 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


with  Frank  looming  white  through  the  occasional 
pinons.  Then  all  dropped  out  of  sight,  to  appear 
again  suddenly.  They  had  reached  the  first  break. 
Soon  I  was  upon  it.  Two  deer  ran  out  of  the  ravine, 
almost  brushing  my  horse  in  the  haste.  Satan  went 
down  and  up  in  a  few  giant  strides.  Only  the  narrow 
ridge  separated  us  from  another  break.  It  was  up 
and  down  then  for  Satan,  a  work  to  which  he  man 
fully  set  himself.  Occasionally  I  saw  Wallace  and 
Jones,  but  heard  them  oftener.  All  the  time  the 
breaks  grew  deeper,  till  finally  Satan  had  to  zigzag 
his  way  down  and  up.  Discouragement  fastened  on 
me,  when  from  the  summit  of  the  next  ridge  I  saw 
Frank  far  down  the  break,  with  Jones  and  Wallace 
not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  from  him.  I  sent  out 
a  long,  exultant  yell  as  Satan  crashed  into  the  hard, 
dry  wash  in  the  bottom  of  the  break. 

I  knew  from  the  way  he  quickened  under  me  that 
he  intended  to  overhaul  somebody.  Perhaps  because 
of  the  clear  going,  or  because  my  frenzy  had  cooled 
to  a  thrilling  excitement  which  permitted  detail,  I  saw 
clearly  and  distinctly  the  speeding  horsemen  down 
the  ravine.  I  picked  out  the  smooth  pieces  of  ground 
ahead,  and  with  the  slightest  touch  of  the  rein  on  his 
neck,  guided  Satan  into  them.  Ho>v  he  ran!  The 
light,  quick  beats  of  his  hoofs  were  regular,  pound 
ing.  Seeing  Jones  and  Wallace  sail  high  into  the  air, 


Old  Tom 


I  knew  they  had  jumped  a  ditch.  Thus  prepared,  I 
managed  to  stick  on  when  it  yawned  before  me ;  and 
Satan,  never  slackening,  leaped  up  and  up,  giving  me 
a  new  swing. 

Dust  began  to  settle  in  little  clouds  before  me; 
Frank,  far  ahead,  had  turned  his  mustang  up  the  side 
of  the  break;  Wallace,  within  hailing  distance,  now 
turned  to  wave  me  a  hand.  The  rushing  wind  fairly 
sang  in  my  ears;  the  walls  of  the  break  were  confused 
blurs  of  yellow  and  green;  at  every  stride  Satan 
seemed  to  swallow  a  rod  of  the  white  trail. 

Jones  began  to  scale  the  ravine,  heading  up 
obliquely  far  on  the  side  of  where  Frank  had  van 
ished,  and  as  Wallace  followed  suit,  I  turned  Satan. 
I  caught  Wallace  at  the  summit,  and  we  raced 
together  out  upon  another  flat  of  pifion.  We  heard 
Frank  and  Jones  yelling  in  a  way  that  caused  us  to 
spur  our  horses  frantically.  Spot,  gleaming  white 
near  a  clump  of  green  pinons,  was  our  guiding  star. 
That  last  quarter  of  a  mile  was  a  ringing  run,  a  ride 
to  remember. 

As  our  mounts  crashed  back  with  stiff  forelegs  and 
haunches,  Wallace  and  I  leaped  off  and  darted  into 
the  clump  of  pinons,  whence  issued  a  hair-raising 
medley  of  yells  and  barks.  I  saw  Jones,  then  Frank, 
both  waving  their  arms,  then  Moze  and  Sounder 
running  wildly,  aimlessly  about. 

223 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"Look  there!"  rang  in  my  ear,  and  Jones 
smashed  me  on  the  back  with  a  blow,  which  at  any 
ordinary  time  would  have  laid  me  flat. 

In  a  low,  stubby  pinon  tree,  scarce  twenty  feet 
from  us,  was  a  tawny  form.  An  enormous  mountain- 
lion,  as  large  as  an  African  lioness,  stood  planted 
with  huge,  round  legs  on  two  branches;  and  he  faced 
us  gloomily,  neither  frightened  nor  fierce.  He 
watched  the  running  dogs  with  pale,  yellow  eyes, 
waved  his  massive  head  and  switched  a  long,  black- 
tufted  tail. 

"It's  Old  Tom!  sure  as  you're  born!  It's  Old 
Tom!"  yelled  Jones.  "There's  no  two  lions  like 
that  in  one  country.  Hold  still  now.  Jude  is  here, 
and  she'll  see  him — she'll  show  him  to  the  other 
hounds.  Hold  still !  " 

We  heard  Jude  coming  at  a  fast  pace  for  a  lame 
dog,  and  we  saw  her  presently,  running  with  her  nose 
down  for  a  moment,  then  up.  She  entered  the  clump 
of  trees,  and  bumped  her  nose  against  the  pinon  Old 
Tom  was  in,  and  looked  up  like  a  dog  that  knew  her 
business.  The  series  of  wild  howls  she  broke  into 
quickly  brought  Sounder  and  Moze  to  her  side. 
They,  too,  saw  the  big  lion,  not  fifteen  feet  over  their 
heads. 

We  were  all  yelling  and  trying  to  talk  at  once,  in 
some  such  state  as  the  dogs. 

224 


Old  Tom 


"  Hyar,  Moze !  Come  down  out  of  that!" 
hoarsely  shouted  Jones. 

Moze  had  begun  to  climb  the  thick,  many- 
branched,  low  pinon  tree.  He  paid  not  the  slightest 
attention  to  Jones,  who  screamed  and  raged  at  him. 

u  Cover  the  lion !  "  cried  he  to  me.  "  Don't  shoot 
unless  he  crouches  to  jump  on  me." 

The  little  beaded  front-sight  wavered  slightly  as  I 
held  my  rifle  leveled  at  the  grim,  snarling  face,  and 
out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  as  it  were,  I  saw  Jones 
dash  in  under  the  lion  and  grasp  Moze  by  the  hind 
leg  and  haul  him  down.  He  broke  from  Jones 
and  leaped  again  to  the  first  low  branch.  His  mas 
ter  then  grasped  his  collar  and  carried  him  to  where 
we  stood  and  held  him  choking. 

"  Boys,  we  can't  keep  Tom  up  there.  When  he 
jumps,  keep  out  of  his  way.  Maybe  we  can  chase 
him  up  a  better  tree." 

Old  Tom  suddenly  left  the  branches,  swinging 
violently;  and  hitting  the  ground  like  a  huge  cat  on 
springs,  he  bounded  off,  tail  up,  in  a  most  ludicrous 
manner.  His  running,  however,  did  not  lack  speed, 
for  he  quickly  outdistanced  the  bursting  hounds. 

A  stampede  for  horses  succeeded  this  move.  I  had 
difficulty  in  closing  my  camera,  which  I  had  forgotten 
until  the  last  moment,  and  got  behind  the  others. 
Satan  sent  the  dust  flying  and  the  pinon  branches 

225 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


crashing.  Hardly  had  I  time  to  bewail  my  ill-luck 
in  being  left,  when  I  dashed  out  of  a  thick  growth  of 
trees  to  come  upon  my  companions,  all  dismounted 
on  the  rim  of  the  Grand  Canon. 

"  He's  gone  down !  He's  gone  down !  "  raged 
Jones,  stamping  the  ground.  "What  luck!  What 
miserable  luck!  But  don't  quit;  spread  along  the 
rim,  boys,  and  look  for  him.  Cougars  can't  fly. 
There's  a  break  in  the  rim  somewhere." 

The  rock  wall,  on  which  we  dizzily  stood,  dropped 
straight  down  for  a  thousand  feet,  to  meet  a  long, 
pifion-covered  slope,  which  graded  a  mile  to  cut  off 
into  what  must  have  been  the  second  wall.  We  were 
far  west  of  Clarke's  trail  now,  and  faced  a  point 
above  where  Kanab  Canon,  a  red  gorge  a  mile  deep, 
met  the  great  canon.  As  I  ran  along  the  rim,  look 
ing  for  a  fissure  or  break,  my  gaze  seemed  impellingly 
drawn  by  the  immensity  of  this  thing  I  could  not 
name,  and  for  which  I  had  as  yet  no  intelligible 
emotion. 

Two  "  Waa-hoos  "  in  the  rear  turned  me  back  in 
double-quick  time,  and  hastening  by  the  horses,  I 
found  the  three  men  grouped  at  the  head  of  a  narrow 
break. 

"  He  went  down  here.  Wallace  saw  him  round 
the  base  of  that  tottering  crag." 

The  break  was  wedge-shaped,  with  the  sharp  end 

226 


Old  Tom 


toward  the  rim,  and  it  descended  so  rapidly  as  to 
appear  almost  perpendicular.  It  was  a  long,  steep 
slide  of  small,  weathered  shale,  and  a  place  that  no 
man  in  his  right  senses  would  ever  have  considered 
going  down.  But  Jones,  designating  Frank  and  me, 
said  in  his  cool,  quick  voice : 

"  You  fellows  go  down.  Take  Jude  and  Sounder 
in  leash.  If  you  find  his  trail  below  along  the  wall, 
yell  for  us.  Meanwhile,  Wallace  and  I  will  hang 
over  the  rim  and  watch  for  him." 

Going  down,  in  one  sense,  was  much  easier  than 
had  appeared,  for  the  reason  that  once  started  we 
moved  on  sliding  beds  of  weathered  stone.  Each  of 
us  now  had  an  avalanche  for  a  steed.  Frank  forged 
ahead  with  a  roar,  and  then  seeing  danger  below, 
tried  to  get  out  of  the  mass.  But  the  stones  were 
like  quicksand;  every  step  he  took  sunk  him  in 
deeper.  He  grasped  the  smooth  cliff,  to  find  holding 
impossible.  The  slide  poured  over  a  fall  like  so 
much  water.  He  reached  and  caught  a  branch  of  a 
pinon,  and  lifting  his  feet  up,  hung  on  till  the  treach 
erous  area  of  moving  stones  had  passed. 

While  I  had  been  absorbed  in  his  predicament, 
my  avalanche  augmented  itself  by  slide  on  slide,  per 
haps  loosened  by  his;  and  before  I  knew  it,  I  was 
sailing  down  with  ever-increasing  momentum.  The 
sensation  was  distinctly  pleasant,  and  a  certain  spirit, 

227 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


before  restrained  in  me,  at  last  ran  riot.  The  slide 
narrowed  at  the  drop  where  Frank  had  jumped,  and 
the  stones  poured  over  in  a  stream.  I  jumped  also, 
but  having  a  rifle  in  one  hand,  failed  to  hold,  and 
plunged  down  into  the  slide  again.  My  feet  were 
held  this  time,  as  in  a  vise.  I  kept  myself  upright 
and  waited.  Fortunately,  the  jumble  of  loose  stone 
slowed  and  stopped,  enabling  me  to  crawl  over  to 
one  side  where  there  was  comparatively  good  foot 
ing.  Below  us,  for  fifty  yards,  was  a  sheet  of  rough 
stone,  as  bare  as  washed  granite  well  could  be.  We 
slid  down  this  in  regular  schoolboy  fashion,  and  had 
reached  another  restricted  neck  in  the  fissure,  when 
a  sliding  crash  above  warned  us  that  the  avalanches 
had  decided  to  move  of  their  own  free  will.  Only 
a  fraction  of  a  moment  had  we  to  find  footing  along 
the  yellow  cliff,  when,  with  a  cracking  roar,  the  mass 
struck  the  slippery  granite.  If  we  had  been  on  that 
slope,  our  lives  would  not  have  been  worth  a  grain 
of  the  dust  flying  in  clouds  above  us.  Huge  stones, 
that  had  formed  the  bottom  of  the  slides,  shot  ahead, 
and  rolling,  leaping,  whizzed  by  us  with  frightful 
velocity,  and  the  remainder  groaned  and  growled  its 
way  down,  to  thunder  over  the  second  fall  and  die 
out  in  a  distant  rumble. 

The  hounds  had  hung  back,  and  were  not  easily 
coaxed  down  to  us.     From  there  on,  down  to  the 

228 


Old  Tom 


base  of  the  gigantic  cliff,  we  descended  with  little 
difficulty. 

"  We  might  meet  the  old  gray  cat  anywheres  along 
here,"  said  Frank. 

The  wall  of  yellow  limestone  had  shelves,  ledges, 
fissures  and  cracks,  any  one  of  which  might  have 
concealed  a  lion.  On  these  places  I  turned  dark, 
uneasy  glances.  It  seemed  to  me  events  succeeded 
one  another  so  rapidly  that  I  had  no  time  to  think, 
to  examine,  to  prepare.  We  were  rushed  from  one 
sensation  to  another. 

"  Gee!  look  here,"  said  Frank;  "  here's  his  tracks. 
Did  you  ever  see  the  like  of  that?  " 

Certainly  I  had  never  fixed  my  eyes  on  such  enor 
mous  cat-tracks  as  appeared  in  the  yellow  dust  at  the 
base  of  the  rim  wall.  The  mere  sight  of  them  was 
sufficient  to  make  a  man  tremble. 

"  Hold  in  the  dogs,  Frank,"  I  called.  "  Listen. 
I  think  I  heard  a  yell." 

From  far  above  came  a  yell,  which,  though  thinned 
out  by  distance,  was  easily  recognized  as  Jones's. 
We  returned  to  the  opening  of  the  break,  and  throw 
ing  our  heads  back,  looked  up  the  slide  to  see  him 
coming  down. 

"  Wait  for  me !  Wait  for  me !  I  saw  the  lion  go 
in  a  cave.  Wait  for  me !  " 

With  the  same  roar  and  crack  and  slide  of  rocks 

229 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


as  had  attended  our  descent,  Jones  bore  down  on  us. 
For  an  old  man  it  was  a  marvelous  performance. 
He  walked  on  the  avalanches  as  though  he  wore 
seven-league  boots,  and  presently,  as  we  began  to 
dodge  whizzing  bowlders,  he  stepped  down  to  us, 
whirling  his  coiled  lasso.  His  jaw  bulged  out;  a 
flash  made  fire  in  his  cold  eyes. 

"  Boys,  we've  got  Old  Tom  in  a  corner.  I  worked 
along  the  rim  north  and  looked  over  every  place  I 
could.  Now,  maybe  you  won't  believe  it,  but  I  heard 
him  pant.  Yes,  sir,  he  panted  like  the  tired  lion  he 
is.  Well,  presently  I  saw  him  lying  along  the  base 
of  the  rim  wall.  His  tongue  was  hanging  out.  You 
see,  he's  a  heavy  lion,  and  not  used  to  running  long 
distances.  Come  on,  now.  It's  not  far.  Hold  in 
the  dogs.  You  there  with  the  rifle,  lead  off,  and  keep 
your  eyes  peeled." 

Single  file,  we  passed  along  in  the  shadow  of  the 
great  cliff.  A  wide  trail  had  been  worn  in  the  dust. 

"  A  lion  run-way,"  said  Jones.  "  Don't  you  smell 
the  cat?" 

Indeed,  the  strong  odor  of  cat  was  very  pro 
nounced  ;  and  that,  without  the  big  fresh  tracks,  made 
the  skin  on  my  face  tighten  and  chill.  As  we  turned 
a  jutting  point  in  the  wall,  a  number  of  animals, 
which  I  did  not  recognize,  plunged  helter-skelter 
down  the  canon  slope. 

230 


The  death  of  the  mountain  king. 


Old  Tom 


u 


"  Rocky  Mountain  sheep !  "  exclaimed  Jones. 
Look!  Well,  this  is  a  discovery.  I  never  heard 
of  a  bighorn  in  the  canon." 

It  was  indicative  of  the  strong  grip  Old  Tom  had 
on  us  that  we  at  once  forgot  the  remarkable  fact  of 
coming  upon  those  rare  sheep  in  such  a  place. 

Jones  halted  us  presently  before  a  deep  curve 
described  by  the  rim  wall,  the  extreme  end  of  which 
terminated  across  the  slope  in  an  impassable  pro 
jecting  corner. 

"  See  across  there,  boys.  See  that  black  hole. 
Old  Tom's  in  there." 

"  What's  your  plan?  "  queried  the  cowboy  sharply. 

"  Wait.  We'll  slip  up  to  get  better  lay  of  the 
land." 

We  worked  our  way  noiselessly  along  the  rim-wall 
curve  for  several  hundred  yards  and  came  to  a  halt 
again,  this  time  with  a  splendid  command  of  the 
situation.  The  trail  ended  abruptly  at  the  dark  cave, 
so  menacingly  staring  at  us,  and  the  corner  of  the 
cliff  had  curled  back  upon  itself.  It  was  a  box-trap, 
with  a  drop  at  the  end,  too  great  for  any  beast,  a 
narrow  slide  of  weathered  stone  running  down,  and 
the  rim  wall  trail.  Old  Tom  would  plainly  be  com 
pelled  to  choose  one  of  these  directions  if  he  left  his 
cave. 

"  Frank,  you  and  I  will  keep  to  the  wall  and  stop 

231 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


near  that  scrub  pirion,  this  side  of  the  hole.  If  I 
rope  him,  I  can  use  that  tree." 

Then  he  turned  to  me : 

"  Are  you  to  be  depended  on  here?  " 

"I?  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  "  I  demanded, 
and  my  whole  breast  seemed  to  sink  in. 

"  You  cut  across  the  head  of  this  slope  and  take 
up  your  position  in  the  slide  below  the  cave,  say 
just  by  that  big  stone.  From  there  you  can  command 
the  cave,  our  position  and  your  own.  Now,  if  it  is 
necessary  to  kill  this  lion  to  save  me  or  Frank,  or,  of 
course,  yourself,  can  you  be  depended  upon  to  kill 
him?" 

I  felt  a  queer  sensation  around  my  heart  and  a 
strange  tightening  of  the  skin  upon  my  face !  What 
a  position  for  me  to  be  placed  in !  For  one  instant 
I  shook  like  a  quivering  aspen  leaf.  Then  because 
of  the  pride  of  a  man,  or  perhaps  inherited  instincts 
cropping  out  at  this  perilous  moment,  I  looked  up 
and  answered  quietly: 

"Yes.    I  will  kill  him !" 

"  Old  Tom  is  cornered,  and  he'll  come  out.  He 
can  run  only  two  ways :  along  this  trail,  or  down  that 
slide.  I'll  take  my  stand  by  the  scrub  pinon  there  so 
I  can  get  a  hitch  if  I  rope  him.  Frank,  when  I  give 
the  word,  let  the  dogs  go.  Grey,  you  block  the  slide. 
If  he  makes  at  us,  even  if  I  do  get  my  rope  on  him, 

232 


Old  Tom 


kill  him!  Most  likely  he'll  jump  down  hill — then 
you'll  have  to  kill  him !  Be  quick.  Now  loose  the 
hounds.  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!" 

I  jumped  into  the  narrow  slide  of  weathered  stone 
and  looked  up.  Jones's  stentorian  yell  rose  high 
above  the  clamor  of  the  hounds.  He  whirled  his 
lasso. 

A  huge  yellow  form  shot  over  the  trail  and  hit 
the  top  of  the  slide  with  a  crash.  The  lasso  streaked 
out  with  arrowy  swiftness,  circled,  and  snapped 
viciously  close  to  Old  Tom's  head.  "  Kill  him  I  Kill 
him !  "  roared  Jones.  Then  the  lion  leaped,  seem 
ingly  into  the  air  above  me.  Instinctively  I  raised  my 
little  automatic  rifle.  I  seemed  to  hear  a  million 
bellowing  reports.  The  tawny  body,  with  its  grim, 
snarling  face,  blurred  in  my  sight.  I  heard  a  roar 
of  sliding  stones  at  my  feet.  I  felt  a  rush  of  wind. 
I  caught  a  confused  glimpse  of  a  whirling  wheel  of 
fur,  rolling  down  the  slide. 

Then  Jones  and  Frank  were  pounding  me,  and 
yelling  I  know  not  what.  From  far  above  came 
floating  down  a  long  "  Waa-hoo!  "  I  saw  Wallace 
silhouetted  against  the  blue  sky.  I  felt  the  hot  barrel 
of  my  rifle,  and  shuddered  at  the  bloody  stones  below 
me — then,  and  then  only,  did  I  realize,  with  weaken 
ing  legs,  that  Old  Tom  had  jumped  at  me,  and  had 
jumped  to  his  death. 

233 


CHAPTER    XIII 

SINGING  CLIFFS 

OLD  TOM   had  rolled  two  hundred  yards 
down  the  canon,  leaving  a  red  trail  and  bits 
of  fur  behind  him.    When  I  had  clambered 
down    to    the    steep    slide    where    he    had    lodged, 
Sounder  and  Jude  had  just  decided  he  was  no  longer 
worth  biting,  and  were  wagging  their  tails.     Frank 
was  shaking  his  head,  and  Jones,  standing  above  the 
lion,  lasso  in  hand,  wore  a  disconsolate  face. 
"  Flow  I  wish  I  had  got  the  rope  on  him !  " 
"  I  reckon  we'd  be  gatherin'  up  the  pieces  of  you 
if  you  had,"  said  Frank,  dryly. 

We  skinned  the  old  king  on  the  rocky  slope  of  his 
mighty  throne,  and  then,  beginning  to  feel  the  effects 
of  severe  exertion,  we  cut  across  the  slope  for  the  foot 
of  the  break.  Once  there,  we  gazed  up  in  dismay. 
That  break  resembled  a  walk  of  life — how  easy  to 
slip  down,  how  hard  to  climb !  Even  Frank,  inured 
as  he  was  to  strenuous  toil,  began  to  swear  and  wipe 
his  sweaty  brow  before  we  had  made  one-tenth  of  the 
ascent.  It  was  particularly  exasperating,  not  to  men- 

234 


Singing  Cliffs 


tion  the  danger  of  it,  to  work  a  few  feet  up  a  slide, 
and  then  feel  it  start  to  move.  We  had  to  climb  in 
single  file,  which  jeopardized  the  safety  of  those 
behind  the  leader.  Sometimes  we  were  all  sliding  at 
once,  like  boys  on  a  pond,  with  the  difference  that 
we  were  in  danger.  Frank  forged  ahead,  turning 
to  yell  now  and  then  for  us  to  dodge  a  cracking  stone. 
Faithful  old  Jude  could  not  get  up  in  some  places, 
so  laying  aside  my  rifle,  I  carried  her,  and  returned 
for  the  weapon.  It  became  necessary,  presently,  to 
hide  behind  cliff  projections  to  escape  the  avalanches 
started  by  Frank,  and  to  wait  till  he  had  surmounted 
the  break.  Jones  gave  out  completely  several  times, 
saying  the  exertion  affected  his  heart.  What  with 
my  rifle,  my  camera  and  Jude,  I  could  offer  him  no 
assistance,  and  was  really  in  need  of  that  myself. 
When  it  seemed  as  if  one  more  step  would  kill  us,  we 
reached  the  rim,  and  fell  panting  with  labored  chests 
and  dripping  skins.  We  could  not  speak.  Jones 
had  worn  a  pair  of  ordinary  shoes  without  thick 
soles  and  nails,  and  it  seemed  well  to  speak  of  them 
in  the  past  tense.  They  were  split  into  ribbons  and 
hung  on  by  the  laces.  His  feet  were  cut  and  bruised. 
On  the  way  back  to  camp,  we  encountered  Moze 
and  Don  coming  out  of  the  break  where  we  had 
started  Sounder  on  the  trail.  The  paws  of  both 
hounds  were  yellow  with  dust,  which  proved  they 

235 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


had  been  down  under  the  rim  wall.  Jones  doubted 
not  in  the  least  that  they  had  chased  a  lion. 

Upon  examination,  this  break  proved  to  be  one 
of  the  two  which  Clarke  used  for  trails  to  his  wild 
horse  corral  in  the  canon.  According  to  him,  the 
distance  separating  them  was  five  miles  by  the  rim 
wall,  and  less  than  half  that  in  a  straight  line.  There 
fore,  we  made  for  the  point  of  the  forest  where  it 
ended  abruptly  in  the  scrub  oak.  We  got  into  camp, 
a  fatigued  lot  of  men,  horses  and  dogs.  Jones 
appeared  particularly  happy,  and  his  first  move,  after 
dismounting,  was  to  stretch  out  the  lion  skin  and 
measure  it. 

"Ten  feet,  three  inches  and  a  half!"  he  sang 
out. 

"  Shore  it  do  beat  hell !  "  exclaimed  Jim  in  tones 
nearer  to  excitement  than  any  I  had  ever  heard  him 
use. 

"  Old  Tom  beats,  by  two  inches,  any  cougar  I 
ever  saw,"  continued  Jones.  "  He  must  have 
weighed  more  than  three  hundred.  We'll  set  about 
curing  the  hide.  Jim,  stretch  it  well  on  a  tree,  and 
we'll  take  a  hand  in  peeling  off  the  fat." 

All  of  the  party  worked  on  the  cougar  skin  that 
afternoon.  The  gristle  at  the  base  of  the  neck,  where 
it  met  the  shoulders,  was  so  tough  and  thick  we  could 
not  scrape  it  thin.  Jones  said  this  particular  spot 

236 


Singing  Cliffs 


was  so  well  protected  because  in  fighting,  cougars 
were  most  likely  to  bite  and  claw  there.  For  that 
matter,  the  whole  skin  was  tough,  tougher  than 
leather;  and  when  it  dried,  it  pulled  all  the  horseshoe 
nails  out  of  the  pine  tree  upon  which  we  had  it 
stretched. 

About  time  for  the  sun  to  set,  I  strolled  along  the 
rim  wall  to  look  into  the  canon.  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  something  of  its  character  and  had  growing 
impressions.  Dark  purple  smoke  veiled  the  clefts 
deep  down  between  the  mesas.  I  walked  along  to 
where  points  of  cliff  ran  out  like  capes  and  peninsulas, 
all  seamed,  cracked,  wrinkled,  scarred  and  yellow 
with  age,  with  shattered,  toppling  ruins  of  rocks 
ready  at  a  touch  to  go  thundering  down.  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  crawl  out  to  the  farthest 
point,  even  though  I  shuddered  over  the  yard-wide 
ridges;  and  when  once  seated  on  a  bare  promontory, 
two  hundred  feet  from  the  regular  rim  wall,  I  felt 
isolated,  marooned. 

The  sun,  a  liquid  red  globe,  had  just  touched  its 
under  side  to  the  pink  cliffs  of  Utah,  and  fired  a 
crimson  flood  of  light  over  the  wonderful  mountains, 
plateaus,  escarpments,  mesas,  domes  and  turrets  of 
the  gorge.  The  rim  wall  of  Powell's  Plateau  was 
a  thin  streak  of  fire;  the  timber  above  like  grass  of 

gold;  and  the  long  slopes  below  shaded  from  bright 

237 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


to  dark.  Point  Sublime,  bold  and  bare,  ran  out 
toward  the  plateau,  jealously  reaching  for  the  sun. 
Bass's  Tomb  peeped  over  the  Saddle.  The  Temple 
of  Vishnu  lay  bathed  in  vapory  shading  clouds,  and 
the  Shinumo  Altar  shone  with  rays  of  glory. 

The  beginning  of  the  wondrous  transformation, 
the  dropping  of  the  day's  curtain,  was  for  me  a  rare 
and  perfect  moment.  As  the  golden  splendor  of  sun 
set  sought  out  a  peak  or  mesa  or  escarpment,  I  gave 
it  a  name  to  suit  my  fancy;  and  as  flushing,  fading, 
its  glory  changed,  sometimes  I  rechristened  it.  Jupi 
ter's  Chariot,  brazen  wheeled,  stood  ready  to  roll 
into  the  clouds.  Semiramis's  Bed,  all  gold,  shone 
from  a  tower  of  Babylon.  Castor  and  Pollux  clasped 
hands  over  a  Stygian  river.  The  Spur  of  Doom,  a 
mountain  shaft  as  red  as  hell,  and  inaccessible,  insur 
mountable,  lured  with  strange  light.  Dusk,  a  bold, 
black  dome,  was  shrouded  by  the  shadow  of  a  giant 
mesa.  The  Star  of  Bethlehem  glittered  from  the 
brow  of  Point  Sublime.  The  Wraith,  fleecy,  feath 
ered  curtain  of  mist,  floated  down  among  the  ruins 
of  castles  and  palaces,  like  the  ghost  of  a  goddess. 
Vales  of  Twilight,  dim,  dark  ravines,  mystic  homes 
of  specters,  led  into  the  awful  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
clothed  in  purple  night. 

Suddenly,  as  the  first  puff  of  the  night  wind  fanned 
my  cheek,  a  strange,  sweet,  low  moaning  and  sighing 

238 


Singing  Cliffs 


came  to  my  ears.  I  almost  thought  I  was  in  a  dream. 
But  the  canon,  now  blood-red,  was  there  in  over 
whelming  reality,  a  profound,  solemn,  gloomy  thing, 
but  real.  The  wind  blew  stronger,  and  then  I  was 
listening  to  a  sad,  sweet  song,  which  lulled  as  the 
wind  lulled.  I  realized  at  once  that  the  sound  was 
caused  by  the  wind  blowing  into  the  peculiar  forma 
tions  of  the  cliffs.  It  changed,  softened,  shaded, 
mellowed,  but  it  was  always  sad.  It  rose  from  low, 
tremulous,  sweetly  quavering  sighs,  to  a  sound  like 
the  last  woeful,  despairing  wail  of  a  woman.  It  was 
the  song  of  the  sea  sirens  and  the  music  of  the  waves ; 
it  had  the  soft  sough  of  the  night  wind  in  the  trees, 
and  the  haunting  moan  of  lost  spirits. 

With  reluctance  I  turned  my  back  to  the  gor 
geously  changing  spectacle  of  the  canon  and  crawled 
in  to  the  rim  wall.  At  the  narrow  neck  of  stone  I 
peered  over  to  look  down  into  misty  blue  nothingness. 

That  night  Jones  told  stories  of  frightened 
hunters,  and  assuaged  my  mortification  by  saying 
"  buck-fever  "  was  pardonable  after  the  danger  had 
passed,  and  especially  so  in  my  case,  because  of  the 
great  size  and  fame  of  Old  Tom. 

''  The  worst  case  of  buck-fever  I  ever  saw  was  on 
a  buffalo  hunt  I  had  with  a  fellow  named  Williams," 
went  on  Jones.  "  I  was  one  of  the  scouts  leading 
a  wagon-train  west  on  the 'old  Santa  Fe  trail.  This 

239 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


fellow  said  he  was  a  big  hunter,  and  wanted  to  kill 
a  buffalo,  so  I  took  him  out.  I  saw  a  herd  making 
over  the  prairie  for  a  hollow  where  a  brook  ran, 
and  by  hard  work,  got  in  ahead  of  them.  I  picked 
out  a  position  just  below  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and 
we  lay  quiet,  waiting.  From  the  direction  of  the 
buffalo,  I  calculated  we'd  be  just  about  right  to  get 
a  shot  at  no  very  long  range.  As  it  was,  I  suddenly 
heard  thumps  on  the  ground,  and  cautiously  raising 
my  head,  saw  a  huge  buffalo  bull  just  over  us,  not 
fifteen  feet  up  the  bank.  I  whispered  to  Williams: 
4  For  God's  sake,  don't  shoot,  don't  move !  '  The 
bull's  little  fiery  eyes  snapped,  and  he  reared.  I 
thought  we  were  goners,  for  when  a  bull  comes  down 
on  anything  with  his  forefeet,  it's  done  for.  But  he 
slowly  settled  back,  perhaps  doubtful.  Then,  as 
another  buffalo  came  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  luckily 
a  little  way  from  us,  the  bull  turned  broadside,  pre 
senting  a  splendid  target.  Then  I  whispered  to 
Williams:  '  Now's  your  chance.  Shoot!  ?  I  waited 
for  the  shot,  but  none  came.  Looking  at  Williams,  I 
saw  he  was  white  and  trembling.  Big  drops  of  sweat 
stood  out  on  his  brow;  his  teeth  chattered,  and  his 
hands  shook.  He  had  forgotten  he  carried  a  rifle." 
"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Frank.  "  They  tell  a 
story  over  at  Kanab  on  a  Dutchman  named  Schmitt. 
He  was  very  fond  of  huntin',  an'  I  guess  had  pretty 

240 


Singing  Cliffs 


good  success  after  deer  an'  small  game.  One  winter 
he  was  out  in  the  Pink  Cliffs  with  a  Mormon  named 
Shoonover,  an'  they  run  into  a  lammin'  big  grizzly 
track,  fresh  an'  wet.  They  trailed  him  to  a  clump 
of  chaparral,  an'  on  goin'  clear  round  it,  found  no 
tracks  leadin'  out.  Shoonover  said  Schmitt  com 
menced  to  sweat.  They  went  back  to  the  place  where 
the  trail  led  in,  an'  there  they  were,  great  big  silver- 
tip  tracks,  bigger'n  hoss-tracks,  so  fresh  thet  water 
was  oozin'  out  of  'em.  Schmitt  said :  '  Zake,  you  go 
in  und  ged  him.  I  hef  took  sick  righdt  now.'  ' 

Happy  as  we  were  over  the  chase  of  Old  Tom, 
and  our  prospects — for  Sounder,  Judc  and  Moze  had 
seen  a  lion  in  a  tree — we  sought  our  blankets  early. 
I  lay  watching  the  bright  stars,  and  listening  to  the 
roar  of  the  wind  in  the  pines.  At  intervals  it  lulled 
to  a  whisper,  and  then  swelled  to  a  roar,  and  then 
died  away.  Far  off  in  the  forest  a  coyote  barked 
once.  Time  and  time  again,  as  I  was  gradually  sink 
ing  into  slumber,  the  sudden  roar  of  the  wind  startled 
me.  I  imagined  it  was  the  crash  of  rolling,  weath 
ered  stone,  and  I  saw  again  that  huge  outspread,  fly 
ing  lion  above  me. 

I  awoke  sometime  later  to  find  Moze  had  sought 
the  warmth  of  my  side,  and  he  lay  so  near  my  arm 
that  I  reached  out  and  covered  him  with  an  end  of 
the  blanket  I  used  to  break  the  wind.  It  was  very 

241 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


cold  and  the  time  must  have  been  very  late,  for  the 
wind  had  died  down,  and  I  heard  not  a  tinkle  from 
the  hobbled  horses.  The  absence  of  the  cowbell 
music  gave  me  a  sense  of  loneliness,  for  without  it 
the  silence  of  the  great  forest  was  a  thing  to  be  felt. 

This  oppressiveness,  however,  was  broken  by  a 
far-distant  cry,  unlike  any  sound  I  had  ever  heard. 
Not  sure  of  myself,  I  freed  my  ears  from  the 
blanketed  hood  and  listened.  It  came  again,  a  wild 
cry,  that  made  me  think  first  of  a  lost  child,  and  then 
of  the  mourning  wolf  of  the  north.  It  must  have 
been  a  long  distance  off  in  the  forest.  An  interval 
of  some  moments  passed,  then  it  pealed  out  again, 
nearer  this  time,  and  so  human  that  it  startled  me. 
Moze  raised  his  head  and  growled  low  in  his  throat, 
and  sniffed  the  keen  air. 

"  Jones,  Jones,"  I  called,  reaching  over  to  touch 
the  old  hunter. 

He  awoke  at  once,  with  the  clear-headedness  of 
the  light  sleeper. 

"  I  heard  the  cry  of  some  beast,"  I  said,  "  and  it 
was  so  weird,  so  strange.  I  want  to  know  what  it 
was." 

Such  a  long  silence  ensued  that  I  began  to  despair 
of  hearing  the  cry  again,  when,  with  a  suddenness 
which  straightened  the  hair  on  my  head,  a  wailing 
shriek,  exactly  like  a  despairing  woman  might  give 

242 


Singing  Cliffs 


in  death  agony,  split  the  night  silence.  It  seemed 
right  on  us. 

"  Cougar!     Cougar!     Cougar!  "  exclaimed  Jones. 

"What's  up?"  queried  Frank,  awakened  by  the 
dogs. 

Their  howling  roused  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
no  doubt  scared  the  cougar,  for  his  womanish  scream 
was  not  repeated.  Then  Jones  got  up  and  gathered 
his  blankets  in  a  roll. 

"Where  you  oozin'  for  now?"  asked  Frank, 
sleepily. 

"  I  think  that  cougar  just  came  up  over  the  rim  on 
a  scouting  hunt,  and  I'm  going  to  go  down  to  the 
head  of  the  trail  and  stay  there  till  morning.  If  he 
returns  that  way,  I'll  put  him  up  a  tree." 

With  this,  he  unchained  Sounder  and  Don,  and 
stalked  off  under  the  trees,  looking  like  an  Indian. 
Once  the  deep  bay  of  Sounder  rang  out;  Jones's 
sharp  command  followed,  and  then  the  familiar 
silence  encompassed  the  forest  and  was  broken  no 
more. 

When  I  awoke  all  was  gray,  except  toward  the 
canon,  where  the  little  bit  of  sky  I  saw  through 
the  pines  glowed  a  delicate  pink.  I  crawled  out  on 
the  instant,  got  into  my  boots  and  coat,  and  kicked 
up  the  smoldering  fire.  Jim  heard  me,  and  said : 

"  Shore  you're  up  early." 

243 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  I'm  going  to  see  the  sunrise  from  the  north  rim 
of  the  Grand  Canon,"  I  said,  and  knew  when  I  spoke 
that  very  few  men,  out  of  all  the  millions  of  travelers, 
had  ever  seen  this,  probably  the  most  surpassingly 
beautiful  pageant  in  the  world.  At  most,  only  a 
few  geologists,  scientists,  perhaps  an  artist  or  two, 
and  horse  wranglers,  hunters  and  prospectors  have 
ever  reached  the  rim  on  the  north  side;  and  these 
men,  crossing  from  Bright  Angel  or  Mystic  Spring 
trails  on  the  south  rim,  seldom  or  never  get  beyond 
Powell's  Plateau. 

The  frost  cracked  under  my  boots  like  frail  ice, 
and  the  bluebells  peeped  wanly  from  the  white. 
When  I  reached  the  head  of  Clarke's  trail  it  was 
just  daylight;  and  there,  under  a  pine,  I  found  Jones 
rolled  in  his  blankets,  with  Sounder  and  Moze  asleep 
beside  him.  I  turned  without  disturbing  him,  and 
went  along  the  edge  of  the  forest,  but  back  a  little 
distance  from  the  rim  wall. 

I  saw  deer  off  in  the  woods,  and  tarrying,  watched 
them  throw  up  graceful  heads,  and  look  and  listen. 
The  soft  pink  glow  through  the  pines  deepened  to 
rose,  and  suddenly  I  caught  a  point  of  red  fire.  Then 
I  hurried  to  the  place  I  had  named  Singing  Cliffs, 
and  keeping  my  eyes  fast  on  the  stone  beneath  me, 
crawled  out  to  the  very  farthest  point,  drew  a  long, 
deep  breath,  and  looked  eastward. 

244 


The  slope  of  sliding  stone. 


Singing  Cliffs 


The  awfulness  of  sudden  death  and  the  glory  of 
heaven  stunned  me !  The  thing  that  had  been  mys 
tery  at  twilight,  lay  clear,  pure,  open  in  the  rosy  hue 
of  dawn.  Out  of  the  gates  of  the  morning  poured 
a  light  which  glorified  the  palaces  and  pyramids, 
purged  and  purified  the  afternoon's  inscrutable  clefts, 
swept  away  the  shadows  of  the  mesas,  and  bathed 
that  broad,  deep  world  of  mighty  mountains,  stately 
spars  of  rock,  sculptured  cathedrals  and  alabaster 
terraces  in  an  artist's  dream  of  color.  A  pearl  from 
heaven  had  burst,  flinging  its  heart  of  fire  into  this 
chasm.  A  stream  of  opal  flowed  out  of  the  sun,  to 
touch  each  peak,  mesa,  dome,  parapet,  temple  and 
tower,  cliff  and  cleft  into  the  new-born  life  of  another 
day. 

I  sat  there  for  a  long  time  and  knew  that  every 
second  the  scene  changed,  yet  I  could  not  tell  how.  I 
knew  I  sat  high  over  a  hole  of  broken,  splintered, 
barren  mountains ;  I  knew  I  could  see  a  hundred  miles 
of  the  length  of  it,  and  eighteen  miles  of  the  width 
of  it,  and  a  mile  of  the  depth  of  it,  and  the  shafts  and 
rays  of  rose  light  on  a  million  glancing,  many-hued 
surfaces  at  once ;  but  that  knowledge  was  no  help  to 
me.  I  repeated  a  lot  of  meaningless  superlatives  to 
myself,  and  I  found  words  inadequate  and  superflu 
ous.  The  spectacle  was  too  elusive  and  too  great.  It 
was  life  and  death,  heaven  and  hell. 

245 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


I  tried  to  call  up  former  favorite  views  of  moun 
tain  and  sea,  so  as  to  compare  them  with  this ;  but  the 
memory  pictures  refused  to  come,  even  with  my  eyes 
closed.  Then  I  returned  to  camp,  with  unsettled, 
troubled  mind,  and  was  silent,  wondering  at  the 
strange  feeling  burning  within  me. 

Jones  talked  about  our  visitor  of  the  night  before, 
and  said  the  trail  near  where  he  had  slept  showed 
only  one  cougar  track,  and  that  led  down  into  the 
canon.  It  had  surely  been  made,  he  thought,  by  the 
beast  we  had  heard.  Jones  signified  his  intention  of 
chaining  several  of  the  hounds  for  the  next  few  nights 
at  the  head  of  this  trail;  so  if  the  cougar  came  up, 
they  would  scent  him  and  let  us  know.  From  which 
it  was  evident  that  to  chase  a  lion  bound  into  the 
canon  and  one  bound  out  were  two  different  things. 

The  day  passed  lazily,  with  all  of  us  resting  on 
the  warm,  fragrant  pine-needle  beds,  or  mending  a 
rent  in  a  coat,  or  working  on  some  camp  task  impossi 
ble  of  commission  on  exciting  days. 

About  four  o'clock,  I  took  my  little  rifle  and 
walked  off  through  the  woods  in  the  direction  of  the 
carcass  where  I  had  seen  the  gray  wolf.  Thinking 
it  best  to  make  a  wide  detour,  co  as  to  face  the  wind, 
I  circled  till  I  felt  the  breeze  was  favorable  to  my 
enterprise,  and  then  cautiously  approached  the  hollow 
where  the  dead  horse  lay.  Indian  fashion,  I  slipped 

246 


Singing  Cliffs 


from  tree  to  tree,  a  mode  of  forest  travel  not  without 
its  fascination  and  effectiveness,  till  I  reached  the 
height  of  a  knoll  beyond  which  I  made  sure  was  my 
objective  point.  On  peeping  out  from  behind  the 
last  pine,  I  found  I  had  calculated  pretty  well,  for 
there  was  the  hollow,  the  big  windfall,  with  its  round, 
starfish-shaped  roots  exposed  to  the  bright  sun,  and 
near  that,  the  carcass.  Sure  enough,  pulling  hard  at 
it,  was  the  gray-white  wolf  I  recognized  as  my 
"  lofer." 

But  he  presented  an  exceedingly  difficult  shot. 
Backing  down  the  ridge,  I  ran  a  little  way  to  come 
up  behind  another  tree,  from  which  I  soon  shifted 
to  a  fallen  pine.  Over  this  I  peeped,  to  get  a  splendid 
view  of  the  wolf.  He  had  stopped  tugging  at  the 
horse,  and  stood  with  his  nose  in  the  air.  Surely  he 
could  not  have  scented  me,  for  the  wind. was  strong 
from  him  to  me;  neither  could  he  have  heard  my  soft 
footfalls  on  the  pine  needles;  nevertheless,  he  was 
suspicious.  Loth  to  spoil  the  picture  he  made,  I 
risked  a  chance,  and  waited.  Besides,  though  I 
prided  myself  on  being  able  to  take  a  fair  aim,  I  had 
no  great  hope  that  I  could  hit  him  at  such  a  distance. 
Presently  he  returned  to  his  feeding,  but  not  for  long. 
Soon  he  raised  his  long,  fine-pointed  head,  and  trotted 
away  a  few  yards,  stopped  to  sniff  again,  then  went 
back  to  his  grewsome  work. 

247 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


At  this  juncture,  I  noiselessly  projected  my  rifle 
barrel  over  the  log.  I  had  not,  however,  gotten  the 
sights  in  line  with  him,  when  he  trotted  away  reluc 
tantly,  and  ascended  the  knoll  on  his  side  of  the 
hollow.  I  lost  him,  and  had  just  begun  sourly  to 
call  myself  a  mollycoddle  hunter,  when  he  reap 
peared.  He  halted  in  an  open  glade,  on  the  very 
crest  of  the  knoll,  and  stood  still  as  a  statue  wolf,  a 
white,  inspiriting  target,  against  a  dark  green  back 
ground.  I  could  not  stifle  a  rush  of  feeling,  for  I 
was  a  lover  of  the  beautiful  first,  and  a  hunter  sec 
ondly;  but  I  steadied  down  as  the  front  sight  moved 
into  the  notch  through  which  I  saw  the  black  and 
white  of  his  shoulder. 

Spang!  How  the  little  Remington  sang!  I 
watched  closely,  ready  to  send  five  more  missiles  after 
the  gray  beast.  He  jumped  spasmodically,  in  a  half- 
curve,  high  in  the  air,  with  loosely  hanging  head, 
then  dropped  in  a  heap.  I  yelled  like  a  boy,  ran  down 
the  hill,  up  the  other  side  of  the  hollow,  to  find  him 
stretched  out  dead,  a  small  hole  in  his  shoulder  where 
the  bullet  had  entered,  a  great  one  where  it  had  come 
out. 

The  job  I  made  of  skinning  him  lacked  some  hun 
dred  degrees  the  perfection  of  my  shot,  but  I  accom 
plished  it,  and  returned  to  camp  in  triumph. 

"  Shore  I  knowed  you'd  plunk  him,"   said  Jim, 

248 


Singing  Cliffs 


very  much  pleased.  "  I  shot  one  the  other  day  same 
way,  when  he  was  feedin'  off  a  dead  horse.  Now 
thet's  a  fine  skin.  Shore  you  cut  through  once  or 
twice.  But  he's  only  half  lofer,  the  other  half  is 
plain  coyote.  Thet  accounts  fer  his  feedin'  on  dead 


meat." 


My  naturalist  host  and  my  scientific  friend  both 
remarked  somewhat  grumpily  that  I  seemed  to  get 
the  best  of  all  the  good  things.  I  might  have  retali 
ated  that  I  certainly  had  gotten  the  worst  of  all  the 
bad  jokes;  but,  being  generously  happy  over  my 
prize,  merely  remarked:  "If  you  want  fame  or 
wealth  or  wolves,  go  out  and  hunt  for  them." 

Five  o'clock  supper  left  a  good  margin  of  day,  in 
which  my  thoughts  reverted  to  the  canon.  I  watched 
the  purple  shadows  stealing  out  of  their  caverns  and 
rolling  up  about  the  base  of  the  mesas.  Jones  came 
over  to  where  I  stood,  and  I  persuaded  him  to  walk 
with  me  along  the  rim  wall.  Twilight  had  stealthily 
advanced  when  we  reached  the  Singing  Cliffs,  and 
we  did  not  go  out  upon  my  promontory,  but  chose  a 
more  comfortable  one  nearer  the  wall. 

The  night  breeze  had  not  sprung  up  yet,  so  the 
music  of  the  cliffs  was  hushed. 

"  You  cannot  accept  the  theory  of  erosion  to 
account  for  this  chasm?"  I  asked  my  companion, 
referring  to  a  former  conversation. 

249 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  I  can  for  this  part  of  it.  But  what  stumps  me 
is  the  mountain  range  three  thousand  feet  high,  cross 
ing  the  desert  and  the  canon  just  above  where  we 
crossed  the  river.  How  did  the  river  cut  through 
that  without  the  help  of  a  split  or  earthquake?  " 

"  I'll  admit  that  is  a  poser  to  me  as  well  as  to 
you.  But  I  suppose  Wallace  could  explain  it  as 
erosion.  He  claims  this  whole  western  country  was 
once  under  water,  except  the  tips  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada  mountains.  There  came  an  uplift  of  the 
earth's  crust,  and  the  great  inland  sea  began  to  run 
out,  presumably  by  way  of  the  Colorado.  In  so 
doing  it  cut  out  the  upper  canon,  this  gorge  eighteen 
miles  wide.  Then  came  a  second  uplift,  giving  the 
river  a  much  greater  impetus  toward  the  sea,  which 
cut  out  the  second,  or  marble  canon.  Now  as  to  the 
mountain  range  crossing  the  canon  at  right  angles. 
It  must  have  come  with  the  second  uplift.  If  so, 
did  it  dam  the  river  back  into  another  inland  sea, 
and  then  wear  down  into  that  red  perpendicular 
gorge  we  remember  so  well?  Or  was  there  a  great 
break  in  the  fold  of  granite,  which  let  the  river  con 
tinue  on  its  way?  Or  was  there,  at  that  particular 
point,  a  softer  stone,  like  this  limestone  here,  which 
erodes  easily?  " 

"  You  must  ask  somebody  wiser  than  I." 

"  Well,  let's  not  perplex  our  minds  with  its  origin. 

250 


Singing  Cliffs 


It  is,  and  that's  enough  for  any  mind.  Ah!  listen! 
Now  you  will  hear  my  Singing  Cliffs." 

From  out  of  the  darkening  shadows  murmurs 
rose  on  the  softly  rising  wind.  This  strange  music 
had  a  depressing  influence;  but  it  did  not  fill  the 
heart  with  sorrow,  only  touched  it  lightly.  And 
when,  with  the  dying  breeze,  the  song  died  away,  it 
left  the  lonely  crags  lonelier  for  its  death. 

The  last  rosy  gleam  faded  from  the  tip  of  Point 
Sublime;  and  as  if  that  were  a  signal,  in  all  the 
clefts  and  canons  below,  purple,  shadowy  clouds  mar 
shaled  their  forces  and  began  to  sweep  upon  the 
battlements,  to  swing  colossal  wings  into  amphithea 
ters  where  gods  might  have  warred,  slowly  to  enclose 
the  magical  sentinels.  Night  intervened,  and  a  mov 
ing,  changing,  silent  chaos  pulsated  under  the  bright 
stars. 

"  How  infinite  all  this  is !  How  impossible  to 
understand!  "  I  exclaimed. 

"'  To  me  it  is  very  simple,"  replied  my  comrade. 
'  The  world  is  strange.  But  this  canon — why,  we 
can  see  it  all !  I  can't  make  out  why  people  fuss  so 
over  it.  I  only  feel  peace.  It's  only  bold  and  beauti 
ful,  serene  and  silent." 

With  the  words  of  this  quiet  old  plainsman,  my 
sentimental  passion  shrank  to  the  true  appreciation 
of  the  scene.  Self  passed  out  to  the  recurring,  soft 

251 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


strains  of  cliff  song.  I  had  been  reveling  in  a  species 
of  indulgence,  imagining  I  was  a  great  lover  of 
nature,  building  poetical  illusions  over  storm-beaten 
peaks.  The  truth,  told  by  one  who  had  lived  fifty 
years  in  the  solitudes,  among  the  rugged  mountains, 
under  the  dark  trees,  and  by  the  sides  of  the  lonely 
streams,  was  the  simple  interpretation  of  a  spirit  in 
harmony  with  the  bold,  the  beautiful,  the  serene,  the 
silent. 

He  meant  the  Grand  Canon  was  only  a  mood  of 
nature,  a  bold  promise,  a  beautiful  record.  He  meant 
that  mountains  had  sifted  away  in  its  dust,  yet  the 
canon  was  young.  Man  was  nothing,  so  let  him  be 
humble.  This  cataclysm  of  the  earth,  this  play 
ground  of  a  river  was  not  inscrutable;  it  was  only 
inevitable — as  inevitable  as  nature  herself.  Millions 
of  years  in  the  bygone  ages  it  had  lain  serene  under 
a  live  moon ;  it  would  bask  silent  under  a  rayless  sun, 
in  the  onward  edge  of  time. 

It  taught  simplicity,  serenity,  peace.  The  eye  that 
saw  only  the  strife,  the  war,  the  decay,  the  ruin,  or 
only  the  glory  and  the  tragedy,  saw  not  all  the  truth. 
It  spoke  simply,  though  its  words  were  grand:  "  My 
spirit  is  the  Spirit  of  Time,  of  Eternity,  of  God. 
Man  is  little,  vain,  vaunting.  Listen.  To-morrow 
he  shall  be  gone.  Peace !  Peace !  " 


252 


CHAPTER    XIV 

ALL   HEROES   BUT  ONE 

Awe  rode  up  the  slope  of  Buckskin,  the  sunrise 
glinted  red-gold  through  the  aisles  of  frosted 
pines,  giving  us  a  hunter's  glad  greeting. 

With  all  due  respect  to,  and  appreciation  of,  the 
breaks  of  the  Siwash,  we  unanimously  decided  that 
if  cougars  inhabited  any  other  section  of  canon  coun 
try,  we  preferred  it,  and  were  going  to  find  it.  We 
had  often  speculated  on  the  appearance  of  the  rim 
wall  directly  across  the  neck  of  the  canon  upon  which 
we  were  located.  It  showed  a  long  stretch  of  breaks, 
fissures,  caves,  yellow  crags,  crumbled  ruins  and  clefts 
green  with  pinon  pine.  As  a  crow  flies,  it  was  only 
a  mile  or  two  straight  across  from  camp,  but  to 
reach  it,  we  had  to  ascend  the  mountain  and  head  the 
canon  which  deeply  indented  the  slope. 

A  thousand  feet  or  more  above  the  level  bench, 
the  character  of  the  forest  changed;  the  pines  grew 
thicker,  and  interspersed  among  them  were  silver 
spruces  and  balsams.  Here  in  the  clumps  of  small 
trees  and  underbrush,  we  began  to  jump  deer,  and 

253 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 

in  a  few  moments  a  greater  number  than  I  had  ever 
seen  in  all  my  hunting  experiences  loped  within  range 
of  my  eye.  I  could  not  look  out  into  the  forest, 
where  an  aisle  or  lane  or  glade  stretched  to  any  dis 
tance,  without  seeing  a  big  gray  deer  cross  it.  Jones 
said  the  herds  had  recently  come  up  from  the  breaks, 
where  they  had  wintered.  These  deer  were  twice  the 
size  of  the  Eastern  species,  and  as  fat  as  well-fed 
cattle.  They  were  almost  as  tame,  too.  A  big  herd 
ran  out  of  one  glade,  leaving  behind  several  curious 
does,  which  watched  us  intently  for  a  moment,  then 
bounded  off  with  the  stiff,  springy  bounce  that  so 
amused  me. 

Sounder  crossed  fresh  trails  one  after  another; 
Jude,  Tige  and  Ranger  followed  him,  but  hesitated 
often,  barked  and  whined;  Don  started  off  once,  to 
come  sneaking  back  at  Jones's  stern  call.  But  surly 
old  Moze  either  would  not  or  could  not  obey,  and 
away  he  dashed.  Bang!  Jones  sent  a  charge  of 
fine  shot  after  him.  He  yelped,  doubled  up  as  if 
stung,  and  returned  as  quickly  as  he  had  gone. 

"  Hyar,  you  white  and  black  coon  dog,"  said 
Jones,  "  get  in  behind,  and  stay  there." 

We  turned  to  the  right  after  a  while  and  got 
among  shallow  ravines.  Gigantic  pines  grew  on  the 
ridges  and  in  the  hollows,  and  everywhere  bluebells 
shone  blue  from  the  white  frost.  Why  the  frost  did 

254 


All  Heroes  But  One 


not  kill  these  beautiful  flowers  was  a  mystery  to  me. 
The  horses  could  not  step  without  crushing  them. 

Before  long,  the  ravines  became  so  deep  that  we 
had  to  zigzag  up  and  down  their  sides,  and  to  force 
our  horses  through  the  aspen  thickets  in  the  hollows. 
Once  from  a  ridge  I  saw  a  troop  of  deer,  and  stopped 
to  watch  them.  Twenty-seven  I  counted  outright, 
but  there  must  have  been  three  times  that  number.  I 
saw  the  herd  break  across  a  glade,  and  watched  them 
until  they  were  lost  in  the  forest.  My  companions 
having  disappeared,  I  pushed  on,  and  while  working 
out  of  a  wide,  deep  hollow,  I  noticed  the  sunny 
patches  fade  from  the  bright  slopes,  and  the  golden 
streaks  vanish  among  the  pines.  The  sky  had  become 
overcast,  and  the  forest  was  darkening.  The  "  Waa- 
hoo  "  I  cried  out  returned  in  echo  only.  The  wind 
blew  hard  in  my  face,  and  the  pines  began  to  bend 
and  roar.  An  immense  black  cloud  enveloped  Buck 
skin. 

Satan  had  carried  me  no  farther  than  the  next 
ridge,  when  the  forest  frowned  dark  as  twilight,  and 
on  the  wind  whirled  flakes  of  snow.  Over  the  next 
hollow,  a  white  pall  roared  through  the  trees  toward 
me.  Hardly  had  I  time  to  get  the  direction  of  the 
trail,  and  its  relation  to  the  trees  nearby,  when  the 
storm  enfolded  me.  Of  his  own  accord  Satan 
stopped  in  the  lee  of  a  bushy  spruce.  The  roar  in 

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The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


the  pines  equaled  that  of  the  cave  under  Niagara, 
and  the  bewildering,  whirling  mass  of  snow  was  as 
difficult  to  see  through  as  the  tumbling,  seething 
waterfall. 

I  was  confronted  by  the  possibility  of  passing  the 
night  there,  and  calming  my  fears  as  best  I  could, 
hastily  felt  for  my  matches  and  knife.  The  prospect 
of  being  lost  the  next  day  in  a  white  forest  was  also 
appalling,  but  I  soon  reassured  myself  that  the  storm 
was  only  a  snow  squall,  and  would  not  last  long. 
Then  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  pleasure  and  beauty 
of  it.  I  could  only  faintly  discern  the  dim  trees; 
the  limbs  of  the  spruce,  which  partially  protected  me, 
sagged  down  to  my  head  with  their  burden;  I  had 
but  to  reach  out  my  hand  for  a  snowball.  Both  the 
wind  and  snow  seemed  warm.  The  great  flakes  were 
like  swan  feathers  on  a  summer  breeze.  There  was 
something  joyous  in  the  whirl  of  snow  and  roar  of 
wind.  While  I  bent  over  to  shake  my  holster,  the 
storm  passed  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  When  I 
looked  up,  there  were  the  pines,  like  pillars  of  Parian 
marble,  and  a  white  shadow,  a  vanishing  cloud  fled, 
with  receding  roar,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  Fast 
on  this  retreat  burst  the  warm,  bright  sun. 

I  faced  my  course,  and  was  delighted  to  see, 
through  an  opening  where  the  ravine  cut  out  of  the 
forest,  the  red-tipped  peaks  of  the  canon,  and  the 

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vaulted  dome  I  had  named  St.  Marks.  As  I  started, 
a  new  and  unexpected  after-feature  of  the  storm 
began  to  manifest  itself.  The  sun  being  warm,  even 
hot,  began  to  melt  the  snow,  and  under  the  trees  a 
heavy  rain  fell,  and  in  the  glades  and  hollows  a  fine 
mi:t  blew.  Exquisite  rainbows  hung  from  white- 
tipped  branches  and  curved  over  the  hollows.  Glis 
tening  patches  of  snow  fell  from  the  pines,  and  broke 
the  showers. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  rode  out  of  the  forest  to 
the  rim  wall  on  dry  ground.  Against  the  green 
pifions  Frank's  white  horse  stood  out  conspicuously, 
and  near  him  browsed  the  mounts  of  Jim  and  Wal 
lace.  The  boys  were  not  in  evidence.  Concluding 
they  had  gone  down  over  the  rim,  I  dismounted  and 
kicked  off  my  chaps,  and  taking  my  rifle  and  camera, 
hurried  to  look  the  place  over. 

To  my  surprise  and  interest,  I  found  a  long  sec 
tion  of  rim  wall  in  ruins.  It  lay  in  a  great  curve 
between  the  two  giant  capes ;  and  many  short,  sharp, 
projecting  promontories,  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw,  over 
hung  the  canon.  The  slopes  between  these  points  of 
cliff  were  covered  with  a  deep  growth  of  pifion, 
and  in  these  places  descent  would  be  easy.  Every 
where  in  the  corrugated  wall  were  rents  and  rifts; 
cliffs  stood  detached  like  islands  near  a  shore;  yellow 
crags  rose  out  of  green  clefts;  jumble  of  rocks,  and 

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The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


slides  of  rim  wall,  broken  into  blocks,  massed  under 
the  promontories. 

The  singular  raggedness  and  wildness  of  the  scene 
took  hold  of  me,  and  was  not  dispelled  until  the 
baying  of  Sounder  and  Don  roused  action  in  me. 
Apparently  the  hounds  were  widely  separated.  Then 
I  heard  Jim's  yell.  But  it  ceased  when  the  wind 
lulled,  and  I  heard  it  no  more.  Running  back  from 
the  point,  I  began  to  go  down.  The  way  was  steep, 
almost  perpendicular;  but  because  of  the  great  stones 
and  the  absence  of  slides,  was  easy.  I  took  long 
strides  and  jumps,  and  slid  over  rocks,  and  swung  on 
pinon  branches,  and  covered  distance  like  a  rolling 
stone.  At  the  foot  of  the  rim  wall,  or  at  a  line 
where  it  would  have  reached  had  it  extended  regu 
larly,  the  slope  became  less  pronounced.  I  could 
stand  up  without  holding  on  to  a  support.  The 
largest  pifions  I  had  seen  made  a  forest  that  almost 
stood  on  end.  These  trees  grew  up,  down,  and  out, 
and  twisted  in  curves,  and  many  were  two  feet  in 
thickness.  During  my  descent,  I  halted  at  intervals 
to  listen,  and  always  heard  one  of  the  hounds,  some 
times  several.  But  as  I  descended  for  a  long  time, 
and  did  not  get  anywhere  or  approach  the  dogs,  I 
began  to  grow  impatient. 

A  large  pinon,  with  a  dead  top,  suggested  a  good 
outlook,  so  I  climbed  it,  and  saw  I  could  sweep  a 

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large  section  of  the  slope.  It  was  a  strange  thing  to 
look  down  hill,  over  the  tips  of  green  trees.  Below, 
perhaps  four  hundred  yards,  was  a  slide  open  for  a 
long  way;  all  the  rest  was  green  incline,  with  many 
dead  branches  sticking  up  like  spars,  and  an  occa 
sional  crag.  From  this  perch  I  heard  the  hounds; 
then  followed  a  yell  I  thought  was  Jim's,  and  after 
it  the  bellowing  of  Wallace's  rifle.  Then  all  was 
silent.  The  shots  had  effectually  checked  the  yelping 
of  the  hounds.  I  let  out  a  yell.  Another  cougar 
that  Jones  would  not  lasso!  All  at  once  I  heard  a 
familiar  sliding  of  small  rocks  below  me,  and  I 
watched  tht  open  slope  with  greedy  eyes. 

Not  a  bit  surprised  was  I  to  see  a  cougar  break 
out  of  the  green,  and  go  tearing  down  the  slide.  In 
less  than  six  seconds,  I  had  sent  six  steel-jacketed 
bullets  after  him.  Puffs  of  dust  rose  closer  and  closer 
to  him  as  each  bullet  went  nearer  the  mark  and  the 
last  showered  him  with  gravel  and  turned  him 
straight  down  the  canon  slope. 

I  slid  down  the  dead  pifion  and  jumped  nearly 
twenty  feet  to  the  soft  sand  below,  and  after  putting 
a  loaded  clip  in  my  rifle,  began  kangaroo  leaps  down 
the  slope.  When  I  reached  the  point  where  the 
cougar  had  entered  the  slide,  I  called  the  hounds, 
but  they  did  not  come  nor  answer  me.  Notwith 
standing  my  excitement,  I  appreciated  the  distance 

259 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


to  the  bottom  of  the  slope  before  I  reached  it.  In 
my  haste,  I  ran  upon  the  verge  of  a  precipice  twice 
as  deep  as  the  first  rim  wall,  but  one  glance  down 
sent  me  shudderingly  backward. 

With  all  the  breath  I  had  left  I  yelled:  "  Waa- 
hoo !  Waa-hoo !  "  From  the  echoes  flung  at  me, 
I  imagined  at  first  that  my  friends  were  right  on  my 
ears.  But  no  real  answer  came.  The  cougar  had 
probably  passed  along  this  second  rim  wall  to  a 
break,  and  had  gone  down.  His  trail  could  easily 
be  taken  by  any  of  the  hounds.  Vexed  and  anxious, 
I  signaled  again  and  again.  Once,  long  after  the 
echo  had  gone  to  sleep  in  some  hollow  canon,  I 
caught  a  faint  "  Wa-a-ho-o-o !  "  But  it  might  have 
come  from  the  clouds.  I  did  not  hear  a  hound  bark 
ing  above  me  on  the  slope;  but  suddenly,  to  my 
amazement,  Sounder's  deep  bay  rose  from  the  abyss 
below.  I  ran  along  the  rim,  called  till  I  was  hoarse, 
leaned  over  so  far  that  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head, 
and  then  sat  down.  I  concluded  this  canon  hunting 
could  bear  some  sustained  attention  and  thought,  as 
well  as  frenzied  action. 

Examination  of  my  position  showed  how  impossi 
ble  it  was  to  arrive  at  any  clear  idea  of  the  depth  or 
size,  or  condition  of  the  canon  slopes  from  the  main 
rim  wall  above.  The  second  wall — a  stupendous, 
yellow-faced  cliff  two  thousand  feet  high — curved  to 


All  Heroes  But  One 


my  left  round  to  a  point  in  front  of  me.  The  inter 
vening  canon  might  have  been  a  half  mile  wide,  and 
it  might  have  been  ten  miles.  I  had  become  disgusted 
with  judging  distance.  The  slope  above  this  second 
wall  facing  me  ran  up  far  above  my  head;  it  fairly 
towered,  and  this  routed  all  my  former  judgments, 
because  I  remembered  distinctly  that  from  the  rim 
this  yellow  and  green  mountain  had  appeared  an 
insignificant  little  ridge.  But  it  was  when  I  turned 
to  gaze  up  behind  me  that  I  fully  grasped  the 
immensity  of  the  place.  This  wall  and  slope  were 
the  first  two  steps  down  the  long  stairway  of  the 
Grand  Canon,  and  they  towered  over  me,  straight 
up  a  half-mile  in  dizzy  height.  To  think  of  climbing 
it  took  my  breath  away. 

Then  again  Sounder's  bay  floated  distinctly  to  me, 
but  it  seemed  to  come  from  a  different  point.  I 
turned  my  ear  to  the  wind,  and  in  the  succeeding 
moments  I  was  more  and  more  baffled.  One  bay 
sounded  from  below,  and  next  from  far  to  the  right; 
another  from  the  left.  I  could  not  distinguish  voice 
from  echo.  The  acoustic  properties  of  the  amphi 
theater  beneath  me  were  too  wonderful  for  my  com 
prehension. 

As  the  bay  grew  sharper,  and  correspondingly 
more  significant,  I  became  distracted,  and  focused  a 
strained  vision  on  the  canon  deeps.  I  looked  along 

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The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


the  slope  to  the  notch  where  the  wall  curved  and 
followed  the  base  line  of  the  yellow  cliff.  Quite  sud 
denly  I  saw  a  very  small  black  object  moving  with 
snail-like  slowness.  Although  it  seemed  impossible 
for  Sounder  to  be  so  small,  I  knew  it  was  he.  Having 
something  now  to  judge  distance  from,  I  conceived 
it  to  be  a  mile,  without  the  drop.  If  I  could  hear 
Sounder,  he  could  hear  me,  so  I  yelled  encourage 
ment.  The  echoes  clapped  back  at  me  like  so  many 
slaps  in  the  face.  I  watched  the  hound  until  he 
disappeared  among  broken  heaps  of  stone,  and  long 
after  that  his  bay  floated  to  me. 

Having  rested,  I  essayed  the  discovery  of  some  of 
my  lost  companions  or  the  hounds,  and  began  to 
climb.  Before  I  started,  however,  I  was  wise  enough 
to  study  the  rim  wall  above,  to  familiarize  myself 
with  the  break  so  I  would  have  a  landmark.  Like 
horns  and  spurs  of  gold  the  pinnacles  loomed  up. 
Massed  closely  together,  they  were  not  unlike  an 
astounding  pipe-organ.  I  had  a  feeling  of  my  little 
ness,  that  I  was  lost,  and  should  devote  every  moment 
and  effort  to  the  saving  of  my  life.  It  did  not  seem 
possible  I  could  be  hunting.  Though  I  climbed  diag 
onally,  and  rested  often,  my  heart  pumped  so  hard 
I  could  hear  it.  A  yellow  crag,  with  a  round  head 
like  an  old  man's  cane,  appealed  to  me  as  near  the 
place  where  I  last  heard  from  Jim,  and  toward  it  I 

262 


All  Heroes  But  One 


labored.  Every  time  I  glanced  up,  the  distance 
seemed  the  same.  A  climb  which  I  decided  would 
not  take  more  than  fifteen  minutes,  required  an  hour. 

While  resting  at  the  foot  of  the  crag,  I  heard  more 
baying  of  hounds,  but  for  my  life  I  could  not  tell 
whether  the  sound  came  from  up  or  down,  and  I 
commenced  to  feel  that  I  did  not  much  care.  Having 
signaled  till  I  was  hoarse,  and  receiving  none  but 
mock  answers,  I  decided  that  if  my  companions  had 
not  toppled  over  a  cliff,  they  were  wisely  withholding 
their  breath. 

Another  stiff  pull  up  the  slope  brought  me  under 
the  rim  wall,  and  there  I  groaned,  because  the  wall 
was  smooth  and  shiny,  without  a  break.  I  plodded 
slowly  along  the  base,  with  my  rifle  ready.  Cougar 
tracks  were  so  numerous  I  got  tired  of  looking  at 
them,  but  I  did  not  forget  that  I  might  meet  a  tawny 
fellow  or  two  among  those  narrow  passes  of  shat 
tered  rock,  and  under  the  thick,  dark  pifions.  Going 
on  in  this  way,  I  ran  point-blank  into  a  pile  of 
bleached  bones  before  a  cave.  I  had  stumbled  on  the 
lair  of  a  lion  and  from  the  looks  of  it  one  like  that 
of  Old  Tom.  I  flinched  twice  before  I  threw  a  stone 
into  the  dark-mouthed  cave.  What  impressed  me  as 
soon  as  I  found  I  was  in  no  danger  of  being  pawed 
and  clawed  round  the  gloomy  spot,  was  the  fact  of 
the  bones  being  there.  How  did  they  come  on  a 

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The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


slope  where  a  man  could  hardly  walk?  Only  one 
answer  seemed  feasible.  The  lion  had  made  his  kill 
one  thousand  feet  above,  had  pulled  his  quarry  to 
the  rim  and  pushed  it  over.  In  view  of  the  theory 
that  he  might  have  had  to  drag  his  victim  from  the 
forest,  and  that  very  seldom  two  lions  worked 
together,  the  fact  of  the  location  of  the  bones  was 
startling.  Skulls  of  wild  horses  and  deer,  antlers 
and  countless  bones,  all  crushed  into  shapelessness, 
furnished  indubitable  proof  that  the  carcasses  had 
fallen  from  a  great  height.  Most  remarkable  of  all 
was  the  skeleton  of  a  cougar  lying  across  that  of  a 
horse.  I  believed — I  could  not  help  but  believe  that 
the  cougar  had  fallen  with  his  last  victim. 

Not  many  rods  beyond  the  lion  den,  the  rim  wall 
split  into  towers,  crags  and  pinnacles.  I  thought  I 
had  found  my  pipe  organ,  and  began  to  climb  toward 
a  narrow  opening  in  the  rim.  But  I  lost  it.  The 
extraordinarily  cut-up  condition  of  the  wall  made 
holding  to  one  direction  impossible.  Soon  I  realized 
I  was  lost  in  a  labyrinth.  I  tried  to  find  my  way 
down  again,  but  the  best  I  could  do  was  to  reach  the 
verge  of  a  cliff,  from  which  I  could  see  the  canon. 
Then  I  knew  where  I  was,  yet  I  did  not  know,  so  I 
plodded  wearily  back.  Many  a  blind  cleft  did  I 
ascend  in  the  maze  of  crags.  I  could  hardly  crawl 
along,  still  I  kept  at  it,  for  the  place  was  conducive 

264 


All  Heroes  But  One 


to  dire  thoughts.  A  tower  of  Babel  menaced  me 
with  tons  of  loose  shale.  A  tower  that  leaned  more 
frightfully  than  the  Tower  of  Pisa  threatened  to 
build  my  tomb.  Many  a  lighthouse-shaped  crag 
sent  down  little  scattering  rocks  in  ominous  notice. 

After  toiling  in  and  out  of  passageways  under  the 
shadows  of  these  strangely  formed  cliffs,  and  coming 
again  and  again  to  the  same  point,  a  blind  pocket,  I 
grew  desperate.  I  named  the  baffling  place  Decep 
tion  Pass,  and  then  ran  down  a  slide.  I  knew  if  I 
could  keep  my  feet  I  could  beat  the  avalanche. 
More  by  good  luck  than  management  I  outran  the 
roaring  stones  and  landed  safely.  Then  rounding 
the  cliff  below,  I  found  myself  on  a  narrow  ledge, 
with  a  wall  to  my  left,  and  to  the  right  the  tips  of 
pinon  trees  level  with  my  feet. 

Innocently  and  wearily  I  passed  round  a  pillar-like 
corner  of  wall,  to  come  face  to  face  with  an  old 
lioness  and  cubs.  I  heard  the  mother  snarl,  and  at 
the  same  time  her  ears  went  back  flat,  and  she 
crouched.  The  same  fire  of  yellow  eyes,  the  same 
grim  snarling  expression  so  familiar  in  my  mind  since 
Old  Tom  had  leaped  at  me,  faced  me  here. 

My  recent  vow  of  extermination  was  entirely  for 
gotten  and  one  frantic  spring  carried  me  over  the 
ledge.  / 

Crash!      I   felt  the  brushing  and  scratching  of 

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The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


branches,  and  saw  a  green  blur.  I  went  down  strad 
dling  limbs  and  hit  the  ground  with  a  thump.  For 
tunately,  I  landed  mostly  on  my  feet,  in  sand,  and 
suffered  no  serious  bruise.  But  I  was  stunned,  and 
my  right  arm  was  numb  for  a  moment.  When  I 
gathered  myself  together,  instead  of  being  grateful 
the  ledge  had  not  been  on  the  face  of  Point  Sub 
lime — from  which  I  would  most  assuredly  have 
leaped — I  was  the  angriest  man  ever  let  loose  in  the 
Grand  Canon. 

Of  course  the  cougars  were  far  on  their  way  by 
that  time,  and  were  telling  neighbors  about  the  brave 
hunter's  leap  for  life;  so  I  devoted  myself  to  further 
efforts  to  find  an  outlet.  The  niche  I  had  jumped 
into  opened  below,  as  did  most  of  the  breaks,  and  I 
worked  out  of  it  to  the  base  of  the  rim  wall,  and 
tramped  a  long,  long  mile  before  I  reached  my  own 
trail  leading  down.  Resting  every  five  steps,  I 
climbed  and  climbed.  My  rifle  grew  to  weigh  a  ton ; 
my  feet  were  lead;  the  camera  strapped  to  my 
shoulder  was  the  world.  Soon  climbing  meant 
trapeze  work — long  reach  of  arm,  and  pull  of 
weight,  high  step  of  foot,  and  spring  of  body. 
Where  I  had  slid  down  with  ease,  I  had  to  strain 
and  raise  myself  by  sheer  muscle.  I  wore  my  left 
glove  to  tatters  and  threw  it  away  to  put  the  right 
one  on  my  left  hand.  I  thought  many  times  I  could 


All  Heroes  But  One 


not  make  another  move;  I  thought  my  lungs  would 
burst,  but  I  kept  on.  When  at  last  I  surmounted  the 
rim,  I  saw  Jones,  and  flopped  down  beside  him,  and 
lay  panting,  dripping,  boiling,  with  scorched  feet, 
aching  limbs  and  numb  chest. 

"  I've  been  here  two  hours,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
knew  things  were  happening  below;  but  to  climb  up 
that  slide  would  kill  me.  I  am  not  young  any  more, 
and  a  steep  climb  like  this  takes  a  young  heart.  As 
it  was  I  had  enough  work.  Look!  "  He  called  my 
attention  to  his  trousers.  They  had  been  cut  to 
shreds,  and  the  right  trouser  leg  was  missing  from 
the  knee  down.  His  shin  was  bloody.  '  "  Moze  took 
a  lion  along  the  rim,  and  I  went  after  him  with  all 
my  horse  could  do.  I  yelled  for  the  boys,  but  they 
didn't  come.  Right  here  it  is  easy  to  go  down,  but 
below,  where  Moze  started  this  lion,  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  get  over  the  rim.  The  lion  lit  straight  out 
of  the  pifions.  I  lost  ground  because  of  the  thick 
brush  and  numerous  trees.  Then  Moze  doesn't 
bark  often  enough.  He  treed  the  lion  twice.  I  could 
tell  by  the  way  he  opened  up  and  bayed.  The  rascal 
coon-dog  climbed  the  trees  and  chased  the  lion  out. 
That's  what  Moze  did !  I  got  to  an  open  space  and 
saw  him,  and  was  coming  up  fine  when  he  went  down 
over  a  hollow  which  ran  into  the  canon.  My  horse 
tripped  and  fell,  turning  clear  over  with  me  before 

267 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


he  threw  me  into  the  brush.     I  tore  my  clothes,  and 
got  this  bruise,  but  wasn't  much  hurt.     My  horse  ; 
pretty  lame." 

I  began  a  recital  of  my  experience,  modestly  omit 
ting  the  incident  where  I  bravely  faced  an  old  lioness. 
Upon  consulting  my  watch,  I  found  I  had  been 
almost  four  hours  climbing  out.  At  that  moment, 
Frank  poked  a  red  face  over  the  rim.  He  was  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  sweating  freely,  and  wore  a  frown  I 
had  never  seen  before.  He  puffed  like  a  porpoise, 
and  at  first  could  hardly  speak. 

"  Where— were— you— all  ?  "  he  panted.  "  Say ! 
but  mebbe  this  hasn't  been  a  chase !  Jim  an'  Wallace 
an1  me  went  tumblin'  down  after  the  dogs,  each  one 
lookin'  out  for  his  perticilar  dog,  an'  darn  me  if  I 
don't  believe  his  lion,  too.  Don  took  one  oozin' 
down  the  canon,  with  me  hot-footin'  it  after  him. 
An'  somewhere  he  treed  thet  lion,  right  below  me,  in 
a  box  canon,  sort  of  an  offshoot  of  the  second  rim, 
an'  I  couldn't  locate  him.  I  blamed  near  killed 
myself  more'n  once.  Look  at  my  knuckles !  Barked 
'em  slidin'  about  a  mile  down  a  smooth  wall.  I 
thought  once  the  lion  had  jumped  Don,  but  soon  I 
heard  him  barkin'  again.  All  thet  time  I  heard 
Sounder,  an'  once  I  heard  the  pup.  Jim  yelled,  an' 
somebody  was  shootin'.  But  I  couldn't  find  nobody, 
or  make  nobody  hear  me.  Thet  canon  is  a  mighty 

268 


All  Heroes  But  One 


deceivin'  place.  You'd  never  think  so  till  you  go 
down.  I  wouldn't  climb  up  it  again  for  all  the  lions 
in  Buckskin.  Hello,  there  comes  Jim  oozin'  up." 

Jim  appeared  just  over  the  rim,  and  when  he  got 
up  to  us,  dusty,  torn  and  fagged  out,  with  Don,  Tige 
and  Ranger  showing  signs  of  collapse,  we  all  blurted 
out  questions.  But  Jim  took  his  time. 

"  Shore  thet  canon  is  one  hell  of  a  place,"  he  began 
finally.  "  Where  was  everybody?  Tige  and  the  pup 
went  down  with  me  an'  treed  a  cougar.  Yes,  they 
did,  an'  I  set  under  a  pifion  holdin'  the  pup,  while 
Tige  kept  the  cougar  treed.  I  yelled  an'  yelled. 
After  about  an  hour  or  two,  Wallace  came  poundin' 
down  like  a  giant.  It  was  a  sure  thing  we'd  get  the 
cougar;  an'  Wallace  was  takin'  his  picture  when  the 
blamed  cat  jumped.  It  was  embarrassin',  because  he 
wasn't  polite  about  how  he  jumped.  We  scattered 
some,  an'  when  Wallace  got  his  gun,  the  cougar  was 
humpin'  down  the  slope,  an'  he  was  goin'  so  fast  an' 
the  pinons  was  so  thick  thet  Wallace  couldn't  get  a 
fair  shot,  an'  missed.  Tige  an'  the  pup  was  so 
scared  by  the  shots  they  wouldn't  take  the  trail  again. 
I  heard  some  one  shoot  about  a  million  times,  an' 
shore  thought  the  cougar  was  done  for.  Wallace 
went  plungin'  down  the  slope  an'  I  followed.  I 
couldn't  keep  up  with  him — he  shore  takes  long 
steps — an*  I  lost  him.  I'm  reckonin'  he  went  over 

269 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


the  second  wall.  Then  I  made  tracks  for  the  top. 
Boys,  the  way  you  can  see  an1  hear  things  down  in 
thet  canon,  an'  the  way  you  can't  hear  an'  see  things 
is  pretty  funny." 

"  If  Wallace  went  over  the  second  rim  wall,  will 
he  get  back  to-day?  "  we  all  asked. 

"  Shore,  there's  no  tellin'." 

We  waited,  lounged,  and  slept  for  threje  hours, 
and  were  beginning  to  worry  about  our  comrade 
when  he  hove  in  sight  eastward,  along  the  rim.  He 
walked  like  a  man  whose  next  step  would  be  his  last. 
When  he  reached  us,  he  fell  flat,  and  lay  breathing 
heavily  for  a  while. 

"  Somebody  once  mentioned  Israel  Putnam's  accent 
of  a  hill,"  he  said  slowly.  "  With  all  respect  to  his 
tory  and  a  patriot,  I  wish  to  say  Putnam  never  saw 
a  hill !  " 

"  Ooze  for  camp,"  called  out  Frank. 

Five  o'clock  found  us  round  a  bright  fire,  all  cast 
ing  ravenous  eyes  at  a  smoking  supper.  The  smell 
of  the  Persian  meat  would  have  made  a  wolf  of  a 
vegetarian.  I  devoured  four  chops,  and  could  not 
have  been  counted  in  the  running.  Jim  opened  a 
can  of  maple  sirup  which  he  had  been  saving  for  a 
grand  occasion,  and  Frank  went  him  one  better  with 
two  cans  of  peaches.  How  glorious  to  be  hungry — 
to  feel  the  craving  for  food,  and  to  be  grateful  for 

270 


All  Heroes  But  One 


it,  to  realize  that  the  best  of  life  lies  in  the  daily 
needs  of  existence,  and  to  battle  for  them ! 

Nothing  could  be  stronger  than  the  simple  enumer 
ation  and  statement  of  the  facts  of  Wallace's  expe 
rience  after  he  left  Jim.  He  chased  the  cougar,  and 
kept  it  in  sight,  until  it  went  over  the  second  rim 
wall.  Here  he  dropped  over  a  precipice  twenty 
feet  high,  to  alight  on  a  fan-shaped  slide  which  spread 
toward  the  bottom.  It  began  to  slip  and  move  by 
jerks,  and  then  started  off  steadily,  with  an  increasing 
roar.  He  rode  an  avalanche  for  one  thousand  feet. 
The  jar  loosened  bowlders  from  the  walls.  When 
the  slide  stopped,  Wallace  extricated  his  feet  and 
began  to  dodge  the  bowlders.  He  had  only  time  to 
jump  over  the  large  ones  or  dart  to  one  side  out  of 
their  way.  He  dared  not  run.  He  had  to  watch 
them  coming.  One  huge  stone  hurtled  over  his  head 
and  smashed  a  pifion  tree  below. 

When  these  had  ceased  rolling,  and  he  had  passed 
down  to  the  red  shale,  he  heard  Sounder  baying  near, 
and  knew  a  cougar  had  been  treed  or  cornered. 
Hurdling  the  stones  and  dead  pifions,  Wallace  ran  a 
mile  down  the  slope,  only  to  find  he  had  been  deceived 
in  the  direction.  He  sheered  off  to  the  left. 
Sounder's  illusive  bay  came  up  from  a  deep  cleft. 
Wallace  plunged  into  a  pinon,  climbed  to  the  ground, 
skidded  down  a  solid  slide,  to  come  upon  an  impassa- 

271 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


ble  obstacle  in  the  form  of  a  solid  wall  of  red  granite. 
Sounder  appeared  and  came  to  him,  evidently  having 
given  up  the  chase. 

Wallace  consumed  four  hours  in  making  the 
ascent.  In  the  notch  of  the  curve  of  the  second  rim 
wall,  he  climbed  the  slippery  steps  of  a  waterfall. 
At  one  point,  if  he  had  not  been  six  feet  five  inches 
tall,  he  would  have  been  compelled  to  attempt 
retracing  his  trail — an  impossible  task.  But  his 
height  enabled  him  to  reach  a  root,  by  which  he 
pulled  himself  up.  Sounder  he  lassoed  a  la  Jones, 
and  hauled  up.  At  another  spot,  which  Sounder 
climbed,  he  lassoed  a  piiion  above,  and  walked  up 
with  his  feet  slipping  from  under  him  at  every  step. 
The  knees  of  his  corduroy  trousers  were  holes,  as 
were  the  elbows  of  his  coat.  The  sole  of  his  left 
boot — which  he  used  most  in  climbing — was  gone, 
and  so  was  his  hat 


272 


CHAPTER    XV 

JONES  ON  COUGARS 

THE  mountain  lion,  or  cougar,  of  our  Rocky 
Mountain  region,  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  the  panther.    He  is  a  little  different  in 
shape,  color  and  size,  which  vary  according  to  his 
environment.    The  panther  of  the  Rockies  is  usually 
light,  taking  the  grayish  hue  of  the  rocks.     He  is 
stockier  and  heavier  of  build,  and  stronger  of  limb 
than  the  Eastern  species,  which  difference  comes  from 
climbing  mountains  and  springing  down  the  cliffs 
after  his  prey. 

In  regions  accessible  to  man,  or  where  man  is 
encountered  even  rarely,  the  cougar  is  exceedingly 
shy,  seldom  or  never  venturing  from  cover  during 
the  day.  He  spends  the  hours  of  daylight  high  on 
the  most  rugged  cliffs,  sleeping  and  basking  in  the 
sunshine,  and  watching  with  wonderfully  keen  sight 
the  valleys  below.  His  hearing  equals  his  sight,  and 
if  danger  threatens,  he  always  hears  it  in  time  to 
skulk  away  unseen.  At  night  he  steals  down  the 
mountain  side  toward  deer  or  elk  he  has  located  dur 
ing  the  day.  Keeping  to  the  lowest  ravines  and 

273 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


thickets,  he  creeps  upon  his  prey.  His  cunning  and 
ferocity  are  keener  and  more  savage  in  proportion 
to  the  length  of  time  he  has  been  without  food.  As 
he  grows  hungrier  and  thinner,  his  skill  and  fierce 
strategy  correspondingly  increase.  A  well-fed  cougar 
will  creep  upon  and  secure  only  about  one  in  seven 
of  the  deer,  elk,  antelope  or  mountain  sheep  that  he 
stalks.  But  a  starving  cougar  is  another  animal.  He 
creeps  like  a  snake,  is  as  sure  on  the  scent  as  a 
vulture,  makes  no  more  noise  than  a  shadow,  and  he 
hides  behind  a  stone  or  bush  that  would  scarcely  con 
ceal  a  rabbit.  Then  he  springs  with  terrific  force, 
and  intensity  of  purpose,  and  seldom  fails  to  reach 
his  victim,  and  once  the  claws  of  a  starved  lion 
touch  flesh,  they  never  let  go. 

A  cougar  seldom  pursues  his  quarry  after  he  has 
leaped  and  missed,  either  from  disgust  or  failure, 
or  knowledge  that  a  second  attempt  would  be  futile. 
The  animal  making  the  easiest  prey  for  the  cougar 
is  the  elk.  About  every  other  elk  attacked  falls  a 
victim.  Deer  are  more  fortunate,  the  ratio  being  one 
dead  to  five  leaped  at.  The  antelope,  living  on  the 
lowlands  or  upland  meadows,  escapes  nine  times  out 
of  ten;  and  the  mountain  sheep,  or  bighorn,  seldom 
falls  to  the  onslaught  of  his  enemy. 

Once  the  lion  gets  a  hold  with  the  great  forepaw, 
every  movement  of  the  struggling  prey  sinks  the 

274 


• 


H  l:i 

8S£i     **TJ>J.\N 


Jones  on  Cougars 


sharp,  hooked  claws  deeper.  Then  as  quickly  as  is 
possible,  the  lion  fastens  his  teeth  in  the  throat  of  his 
prey  and  grips  till  it  is  dead.  In  this  way  elk  have 
carried  lions  for  many  rods.  The  lion  seldom  tears 
the  skin  of  the  neck,  and  never,  as  is  generally  sup 
posed,  sucks  the  blood  of  its  victim;  but  he  cuts  into 
the  side,  just  behind  the  foreshoulder,  and  eats  the 
liver  first.  He  rolls  the  skin  back  as  neatly  and 
tightly  as  a  person  could  do  it.  When  he  has  gorged 
himself,  he  drags  the  carcass  into  a  ravine  or  dense 
thicket,  and  rakes  leaves,  sticks  or  dirt  over  it  to 
hide  it  from  other  animals.  Usually  he  returns  to 
his  cache  on  the  second  night,  and  after  that  the 
frequency  of  his  visits  depends  on  the  supply  of  fresh 
prey.  In  remote  regions,  unfrequented  by  man,  the 
lion  will  guard  his  cache  from  coyote  and  buzzards. 
In  sex  there  are  about  five  female  lions  to  one 
male.  This  is  caused  by  the  jealous  and  vicious  dis 
position  of  the  male.  It  is  a  fact  that  the  old  Toms 
kill  every  young  lion  they  can  catch.  Both  male  and 
female  of  the  litter  suffer  alike  until  after  weaning 
time,  and  then  only  the  males.  In  this  matter  wise 
animal  logic  is  displayed  by  the  Toms.  The  domes 
tic  cat,  to  some  extent,  possesses  the  same  trait.  If 
the  litter  is  destroyed,  the  mating  time  is  sure  to  come 
about  regardless  of  the  season.  Thus  this  savage 
trait  of  the  lions  prevents  overproduction,  and  breeds 

275 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


a  hardy  and  intrepid  race.  If  by  chance  or  that 
cardinal  feature  of  animal  life— the  survival  of  the 
fittest — a  young  male  lion  escapes  to  the  weaning 
time,  even  after  that  he  is  persecuted.  Young  male 
lions  have  been  killed  and  found  to  have  had  their 
flesh  beaten  until  it  was  a  mass  of  bruises  and  un 
doubtedly  it  had  been  the  work  of  an  old  Tom. 
Moreover,  old  males  and  females  have  been  killed, 
and  found  to  be  in  the  same  bruised  condition.  A 
feature,  and  a  conclusive  one,  is  the  fact  that  invari 
ably  the  female  is  suckling  her  young  at  this  period, 
and  sustains  the  bruises  in  desperately  defending  her 
litter. 

It  is  astonishing  how  cunning,  wise  and  faithful 
an  old  lioness  is.  She  seldom  leaves  her  kittens. 
From  the  time  they  are  six  weeks  old  she  takes  them 
out  to  train  them  for  the  battles  of  life,  and  the 
struggle  continues  from  birth  to  death.  A  lion 
hardly  ever  dies  naturally.  As  soon  as  night 
descends,  the  lioness  stealthily  stalks  forth,  and 
because  of  her  little  ones,  takes  very  short  steps. 
The  cubs  follow,  stepping  in  their  mother's  tracks. 
When  she  crouches  for  game,  each  little  lion  crouches 
also,  and  each  one  remains  perfectly  still  until  she 
springs,  or  signals  them  to  come.  If  she  secures  the 
prey,  they  all  gorge  themselves.  After  the  feast  the 
mother  takes  her  back  trail,  stepping  in  the  tracks 

276 


Jones  on  Cougars 


she  made  coming  down  the  mountain.  And  the  cubs 
are  very  careful  to  follow  suit,  and  not  to  leave 
marks  of  their  trail  in  the  soft  snow.  No  doubt  this 
habit  is  practiced  to  keep  their  deadly  enemies  in 
ignorance  of  their  existence.  The  old  Toms  and 
white  hunters  are  their  only  foes.  Indians  never  kill 
a  lion.  This  trick  of  the  lions  has  fooled  many  a 
hunter,  concerning  not  only  the  direction,  but  par 
ticularly  the  number. 

The  only  successful  way  to  hunt  lions  is  with 
trained  dogs.  A  good  hound  can  trail  them  for 
several  hours  after  the  tracks  have  been  made,  and 
on  a  cloudy  or  wet  day  can  hold  the  scent  much 
longer.  In  snow  the  hound  can  trail  for  three  or 
four  days  after  the  track  has  been  made. 

When  Jones  was  game  warden  of  the  Yellowstone 
National  Park,  he  had  unexampled  opportunities  to 
hunt  cougars  and  learn  their  habits.  All  the  cougars 
in  that  region  of  the  Rockies  made  a  rendezvous  of 
the  game  preserve.  Jones  soon  procured  a  pack  of 
hounds,  but  as  they  had  been  trained  to  run  deer, 
foxes  and  coyotes  he  had  great  trouble.  They  would 
break  on  the  trail  of  these  animals,  and  also  on  elk 
and  antelope  just  when  this  was  farthest  from  his 
wish.  He  soon  realized  that  to  train  the  hounds  was 
a  sore  task.  When  they  refused  to  come  back  at  his 
call,  he  stung  them  with  fine  shot,  and  in  this  man- 

277 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


ner  taught  obedience.  But  obedience  was  not 
enough;  the  hounds  must  know  how  to  follow  and 
tree  a  lion.  With  this  in  mind,  Jones  decided  to 
catch  a  lion  alive  and  give  his  dogs  practical  lessons. 

A  few  days  after  reaching  this  decision,  he  dis 
covered  the  tracks  of  two  lions  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Mt.  Everett.  The  hounds  were  put  on  the  trail 
and  followed  it  into  an  abandoned  coal  shaft.  Jones 
recognized  this  as  his  opportunity,  and  taking  his 
lasso  and  an  extra  rope,  he  crawled  into  the  hole. 
Not  fifteen  feet  from  the  opening  sat  one  of  the 
cougars,  snarling  and  spitting.  Jones  promptly 
lassoed  it,  passed  his  end  of  the  lasso  round  a  side 
prop  of  the  shaft,  and  out  to  the  soldiers  who  had 
followed  him.  Instructing  them  not  to  pull  till  he 
called,  he  cautiously  began  to  crawl  by  the  cougar, 
with  the  intention  of  getting  farther  back  and  roping 
its  hind  leg,  so  as  to  prevent  disaster  when  the 
soldiers  pulled  it  out.  He  accomplished  this,  not 
without  some  uneasiness  in  regard  to  the  second  lion, 
and  giving  the  word  to  his  companions,  soon  had  his 
captive  hauled  from  the  shaft  and  tied  so  tightly  it 
could  not  move. 

Jones  took  the  cougar  and  his  hounds  to  an  open 
place  in  the  park,  where  there  were  trees,  and  pre 
pared  for  a  chase.  Loosing  the  lion,  he  held  his 
hounds  back  a  moment,  then  let  them  go.  Within 

278 


Jones  on  Cougars 


one  hundred  yards  the  cougar  climbed  a  tree,  and 
the  dogs  saw  the  performance.  Taking  a  forked 
stick,  Jones  mounted  up  to  the  cougar,  caught  it 
under  the  jaw  with  the  stick,  and  pushed  it  out. 
There  was  a  fight,  a  scramble,  and  the  cougar  dashed 
off  to  run  up  another  tree.  In  this  manner,  he  soon 
trained  his  hounds  to  the  pink  of  perfection. 

Jones  discovered,  while  in  the  park,  that  the 
cougar  is  king  of  all  the  beasts  of  North  America. 
Even  a  grizzly  dashed  away  in  great  haste  when  a 
cougar  made  his  appearance.  At  the  road  camp, 
near  Mt.  Washburn,  during  the  fall  of  1904,  the 
bears,  grizzlies  and  others,  were  always  hanging 
round  the  cook  tent.  There  were  cougars  also,  and 
almost  every  evening,  about  dust>,  a  big  fellow  would 
come  parading  past  the  tent.  The  bears  would  grunt 
furiously  and  scamper  in  every  direction.  It  was 
easy  to  tell  when  a  cougar  was  in  the  neighborhood, 
by  the  peculiar  grunts  and  snorts  of  the  bears,  and 
the  sharp,  distinct,  alarmed  yelps  of  coyotes.  A  lion 
would  just  as  lief  kill  a  coyote  as  any  other  animal, 
and  he  would  devour  it,  too.  As  to  the  fighting  of 
cougars  and  grizzlies,  that  was  a  mooted  question, 
with  the  credit  on  the  side  of  the  former. 

The  story  of  the  doings  of  cougars,  as  told  in  the 
snow,  was  intensely  fascinating  and  tragical.  How 
they  stalked  deer  and  elk,  crept  to  within  springing 

279 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


distance,  then  crouched  flat  to  leap,  was  as  easy  to 
read  as  if  it  had  been  told  in  print.  The  leaps  and 
bounds  were  beyond  belief.  The  longest  leap  on  a 
level  measured  eighteen  and  one-half  feet.  Jones 
trailed  a  half-grown  cougar,  which  in  turn  was  trail 
ing  a  big  elk.  He  found  where  the  cougar  had  struck 
his  game,  had  clung  for  many  rods,  to  be  dashed  off 
by  the  low  limb  of  a  spruce  tree.  The  imprint  of 
the  body  of  the  cougar  was  a  foot  deep  in  the  snow ; 
blood  and  tufts  of  hair  covered  the  place.  But  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  cougar  renewing  the  chase. 

In  rare  cases  cougars  would  refuse  to  run,  or  take 
to  trees.  One  day  Jones  followed  the  hounds,  eight 
in  number,  to  come  on  a  huge  Tom  holding  the  whole 
pack  at  bay.  He  walked  to  and  fro,  lashing  his  tail 
from  side  to  side,  and  when  Jones  dashed  up,  he 
coolly  climbed  a  tree.  Jones  shot  the  cougar,  which, 
in  falling,  struck  one  of  the  hounds,  crippling  him. 
This  hound  would  never  approach  a  tree  after  this 
incident,  believing  probably  that  the  cougar  had 
sprung  upon  him. 

Usually  the  hounds  chased  their  quarry  into  a  tree 
long  before  Jones  rode  up.  It  was  always  desirable 
to  kill  the  animal  with  the  first  shot.  If  the  cougar 
was  wounded,  and  fell  or  jumped  among  the  dogs, 
there  was  sure  to  be  a  terrible  fight,  and  the  best  dogs 
always  received  serious  injuries,  if  they  were  not 

280 


Jones  on  Cougars 


killed  outright.    The  lion  would  seize  a  hound,  pull 
him  close,  and  bite  him  in  the  brain. 

Jones  asserted  that  a  cougar  would  usually  run 
from  a  hunter,  but  that  this  feature  was  not  to  be 
relied  upon.  And  a  wounded  cougar  was  as  danger 
ous  as  a  tiger.  In  his  hunts  Jones  carried  a  shotgun, 
and  shells  loaded  with  ball  for  the  cougar,  and  others 
loaded  with  fine  shot  for  the  hounds.  One  day, 
about  ten  miles  from  the  camp,  the  hounds  took  a 
trail  and  ran  rapidly,  as  there  were  only  a  few  inches 
of  snow.  Jones  found  a  large  lion  had  taken  refuge 
in  a  tree  that  had  fallen  against  another,  and  aiming 
at  the  shoulder  of  the  beast,  he  fired  both  barrels. 
The  cougar  made  no  sign  he  had  been  hit.  Jones 
reloaded  and  fired  at  the  head.  The  old  fellow 
growled  fiercely,  turned  in  the  tree  and  walked  down 
head  first,  something  he  would  not  have  been  able 
to  do  had  the  tree  been  upright.  The  hounds  were 
ready  for  him,  but  wisely  attacked  in  the  rear.  Real 
izing  he  had  been  shooting  fine  shot  at  the  animal, 
Jones  began  a  hurried  search  for  a  shell  loaded  with 
ball.  The  lion  made  for  him,  compelling  him  to 
dodge  behind  trees.  Even  though  the  hounds  kept 
nipping  the  cougar,  the  persistent  fellow  still  pursued 
the  hunter.  At  last  Jones  found  the  right  shell,  just 
as  the  cougar  reached  for  him.  Major,  the  leader 
of  the  hounds,  darted  bravely  in,  and  grasped  the 


281 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


leg  of  the  beast  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  This  enabled 
Jones  to  take  aim  and  fire  at  close  range,  which 
ended  the  fight.  Upon  examination,  it  was  discov 
ered  the  cougar  had  been  half-blinded  by  the  fine 
shot,  which  accounted  for  the  ineffectual  attempts 
he  had  made  to  catch  Jones. 

The  mountain  lion  rarely  attacks  a  human  being 
for  the  purpose  of  eating.  When  hungry  he  will 
often  follow  the  tracks  of  people,  and  under  favor 
able  circumstances  may  ambush  them.  In  the  park 
where  game  is  plentiful,  no  one  has  ever  known  a 
cougar  to  follow  the  trail  of  a  person ;  but  outside  the 
park  lions  have  been  known  to  follow  hunters,  and 
particularly  stalk  little  children.  The  Davis  family, 
living  a  few  miles  north  of  the  park,  have  had  chil 
dren  pursued  to  the  very  doors  of  their  cabin.  And 
other  families  relate  similar  experiences.  Jones 
heard  of  only  one  fatality,  but  he  believes  that  if  the 
children  were  left  alone  in  the  woods,  the  cougars 
would  creep  closer  and  closer,  and  when  assured  there 
was  no  danger,  would  spring  to  kill. 

Jones  never  heard  the  cry  of  a  cougar  in  the 
National  Park,  which  strange  circumstance,  consider 
ing  the  great  number  of  the  animals  there,  he  believed 
to  be  on  account  of  the  abundance  of  game.  But 
he  had  heard  it  when  a  boy  in  Illinois,  and  when  a 
man  all  over  the  West,  and  the  cry  was  always  the 


Jones  on  Cougars 


same,  weird  and  wild,  like  the  scream  of  a  terrified 
woman.  He  did  not  understand  the  significance  of 
the  cry,  unless  it  meant  hunger,  or  the  wailing  mourn 
of  a  lioness  for  her  murdered  cubs. 

The  destructiveness  of  this  savage  species  was  mur 
derous.  Jones  came  upon  one  old  Tom's  den,  where 
there  was  a  pile  of  nineteen  elk,  mostly  yearlings. 
Only  five  or  six  had  been  eaten.  Jones  hunted  this 
old  fellow  for  months,  and  found  that  the  lion  killed 
on  the  average  three  animals  a  week.  The  hounds 
got  him  up  at  length,  and  chased  him  to  the  Yellow 
stone  River,  which  he  swam  at  a  point  impassable  for 
man  or  horse.  One  of  the  dogs,  a  giant  bloodhound 
named  Jack,  swam  the  swift  channel,  kept  on  after 
the  lion,  but  never  returned.  All  cougars  have  their 
peculiar  traits  and  habits,  the  same  as  other  creatures, 
and  all  old  Toms  have  strongly  marked  characteris 
tics,  but  this  one  was  the  most  destructive  cougar 
Jones  ever  knew. 

During  Jones's  short  sojourn  as  warden  in  the 
park,  he  captured  numerous  cougars  alive,  and  killed 
seventy-two. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

KITTY 

IT  seemed  my  eyelids  had  scarcely  touched  when 
Jones's  exasperating,  yet  stimulating,  yell 
aroused  me.  Day  was  breaking.  The  moon 
and  stars  shone  with  wan  luster.  A  white,  snowy 
frost  silvered  the  forest.  Old  Moze  had  curled  close 
beside  me,  and  now  he  gazed  at  me  reproachfully 
and  shivered.  Lawson  came  hustling  in  with  the 
horses.  Jim  busied  himself  around  the  campfire. 
My  fingers  nearly  froze  while  I  saddled  my  horse. 

At  five  o'clock  we  were  trotting  up  the  slope  of 
Buckskin,  bound  for  the  section  of  ruined  rim  wall 
where  we  had  encountered  the  convention  of  cougars. 
Hoping  to  save  time,  we  took  a  short  cut,  and  were 
soon  crossing  deep  ravines. 

The  sunrise  coloring  the  purple  curtain  of  cloud 
over  the  canon  was  too  much  for  me,  and  I  lagged 
on  a  high  ridge  to  watch  it,  thus  falling  behind  my 
more  practical  companions.  A  far-off  "  Waa-hoo !  " 
brought  me  to  a  realization  of  the  day's  stern  duty, 
and  I  hurried  Satan  forward  on  the  trail. 

284 


Kitty 

I  came  suddenly  upon  our  leader,  leading  his  horse 
through  the  scrub  pinon  on  the  edge  of  the  canon, 
and  I  knew  at  once  something  had  happened,  for  he 
was  closely  scrutinizing  the  ground. 

"  I  declare  this  beats  me  all  hollow !  "  began  Jones. 
"  We  might  be  hunting  rabbits  instead  of  the  wildest 
animals  on  the  continent.  We  jumped  a  bunch  of 
lions  in  this  clump  of  pinon.  There  must  have  been 
at  least  four.  I  thought  first  we'd  run  upon  an  old 
lioness  with  cubs,  but  all  the  trails  were  made  by 
full-grown  lions.  Moze  took  one  north  along  the 
rim,  same  as  the  other  day,  but  the  lion  got  away 
quick.  Frank  saw  one  lion.  Wallace  is  following 
Sounder  down  into  the  first  hollow.  Jim  has  gone 
over  the  rim  wall  after  Don.  There  you  are !  Four 
lions  playing  tag  in  broad  daylight  on  top  of  this 
wall!  I'm  inclined  to  believe  Clarke  didn't  exag 
gerate.  But  confound  the  luck!  the  hounds  have 
split  again.  They're  doing  their  best,  of  course,  and 
it's  up  to  us  to  stay  with  them.  I'm  afraid  we'll 
lose  some  of  them.  Hello !  I  hear  a  signal.  That's 
from  Wallace.  Waa-hoo!  Waa-hoo!  There  he  is, 
coming  out  of  the  hollow." 

The  tall  Californian  reached  us  presently  with 
Sounder  beside  him.  He  reported  that  the  hound  had 
chased  a  lion  into  an  impassable  break.  We  then 
joined  Frank  on  a  jutting  crag  of  the  canon  wall. 

285 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  Waa-hoo !  "  yelled  Jones.  There  was  no  answer 
except  the  echo,  and  it  rolled  up  out  of  the  chasm 
with  strange,  hollow  mockery. 

"  Don  took  a  cougar  down  this  slide,"  said  Frank. 
"  I  saw  the  brute,  an'  Don  was  makin'  him  hump. 
A— ha!  There!  Listen  to  diet !" 

From  the  green  and  yellow  depths  soared  the  faint 
yelp  of  a  hound. 

"  That's  Don !  that's  Don !  "  cried  Jones.  "  He's 
hot  on  something.  Where's  Sounder?  Hyar, 
Sounder !  By  George !  there  he  goes  down  the  slide. 
Hear  him !  He's  opened  up !  Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  " 

The  deep,  full  mellow  bay  of  the  hound  came 
ringing  on  the  clear  air. 

u  Wallace,  you  go  down.  Frank  and  I  will  climb 
out  on  that  pointed  crag.  Grey,  you  stay  here. 
Then  we'll  have  the  slide  between  us.  Listen  and 
watch !  " 

From  my  promontory  I  watched  Wallace  go  down 
with  his  gigantic  strides,  sending  the  rocks  rolling 
and  cracking;  and  then  I  saw  Jones  and  Frank  crawl 
out  to  the  end  of  a  crumbling  ruin  of  yellow  wall, 
which  threatened  to  go  splintering  and  thundering 
down  into  the  abyss. 

I  thought,  as  I  listened  to  the  penetrating  voice  of 
the  hound,  that  nowhere  on  earth  could  there  be  a 
grander  scene  for  wild  action,  wild  life.  My  position 

286 


The  lion  country. 


Kitty 

afforded  a  commanding  view  over  a  hundred  miles 
of  the  noblest  and  most  sublime  work  of  nature.  The 
rim  wall  where  I  stood  sheered  down  a  thousand  feet, 
to  meet  a  long  wooded  slope  which  cut  abruptly  off 
into  another  giant  precipice;  a  second  long  slope 
descended,  and  jumped  off  into  what  seemed  the 
grave  of  the  world.  Most  striking  in  that  vast  void 
were  the  long,  irregular  points  of  rim  wall,  protrud 
ing  into  the  Grand  Canon.  From  Point  Sublime  to 
the  Pink  Cliffs  of  Utah  there  were  twelve  of  these 
colossal  capes,  miles  apart,  some  sharp,  some  round, 
some  blunt,  all  rugged  and  bold.  The  great  chasm 
in  the  middle  was  full  of  purple  smoke.  It  seemed 
a  mighty  sepulcher  from  which  misty  fumes  rolled 
upward.  The  turrets,  mesas,  domes,  parapets  and 
escarpments  of  yellow  and  red  rock  gave  the  appear 
ance  of  an  architectural  work  of  giant  hands.  The 
wonderful  river  of  silt,  the  blood-red,  mystic  and 
sullen  Rio  Colorado,  lay  hidden  except  in  one  place 
far  away,  where  it  glimmered  wanly.  Thousands  of 
colors  were  blended  before  my  rapt  gaze.  Yellow 
predominated,  as  the  walls  and  crags  lorded  it  over 
the  lower  cliffs  and  tables ;  red  glared  in  the  sunlight ; 
green  softened  these  two,  and  then  purple  and  violet, 
gray,  blue  and  the  darker  hues  shaded  away  into 
dim  and  distinct  obscurity. 

Excited  yells  from  my  companions  on  the  other 

287 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


crag  recalled  me  to  the  living  aspect  of  the  scene. 
Jones  was  leaning  far  down  in  a  niche,  at  seeming 
great  hazard  of  life,  yelling  with  all  the  power  of  his 
strong  lungs.  Frank  stood  still  farther  out  on  a 
cracked  point  that  made  me  tremble,  and  his  yell 
reenforced  Jones's.  From  far  below  rolled  up  a 
chorus  of  thrilling  bays  and  yelps,  and  Jim's  call, 
faint,  but  distinct  on  that  wonderfully  thin  air,  with 
its  unmistakable  note  of  warning. 

Then  on  the  slide  I  saw  a  lion  headed  for  the  rim 
wall  and  climbing  fast.  I  added  my  exultant  cry 
to  the  medley,  and  I  stretched  my  arms  wide  to  that 
illimitable  void  and  gloried  in  a  moment  full  to  the 
brim  of  the  tingling  joy  of  existence.  I  did  not  con 
sider  how  painful  it  must  have  been  to  the  toiling 
lion.  It  was  only  the  spell  of  wild  environment,  of 
perilous  yellow  crags,  of  thin,  dry  air,  of  voice  of 
man  and  dog,  of  the  stinging  expectation  of  sharp 
action,  of  life. 

I  watched  the  lion  growing  bigger  and  bigger.  I 
saw  Don  and  Sounder  run  from  the  pinon  into  the 
open  slide,  and  heard  their  impetuous  burst  of  wild 
yelps  as  they  saw  their  game.  Then  Jones's  clarion 
yell  made  me  bound  for  my  horse.  I  reached  him, 
was  about  to  mount,  when  Moze  came  trotting 
toward  me.  I  caught  the  old  gladiator.  When  he 
heard  the  chorus  from  below,  he  plunged  like  a  mad 

288 


Kitty 

bull.  With  both  arms  round  him  I  held  on.  I  vowed 
never  to  let  him  get  down  that  slide.  He  howled 
and  tore,  but  I  held  on.  My  big  black  horse  with 
ears  laid  back  stood  like  a  rock. 

I  heard  the  pattering  of  little  sliding  rocks  below ; 
stealthy  padded  footsteps  and  hard  panting  breaths, 
almost  like  coughs;  then  the  lion  passed  out  of  the 
slide  not  twenty  feet  away.  He  saw  us,  and  sprang 
into  the  pinon  scrub  with  the  leap  of  a  scared  deer. 

Samson  himself  could  no  longer  have  held  Moze. 
Away  he  darted  with  his  sharp,  angry  bark.  I  flung 
myself  upon  Satan  and  rode  out  to  see  Jones  ahead 
and  Frank  flashing  through  the  green  on  the  white 
horse. 

At  the  end  of  the  pinon  thicket  Satan  overhauled 
Jones's  bay,  and  we  entered  the  open  forest  together. 
We  saw  Frank  glinting  across  the  dark  pines. 

"  Hi !  Hi !  "  yelled  the  Colonel. 

No  need  was  there  to  whip  or  spur  those  magnifi 
cent  horses.  They  were  fresh ;  the  course  was  open, 
and  smooth  as  a  racetrack,  and  the  impelling  chorus 
of  the  hounds  was  in  full  blast.  I  gave  Satan  a  loose 
rein,  and  he  stayed  neck  and  neck  with  the  bay. 
There  was  not  a  log,  nor  a  stone,  nor  a  gully.  The 
hollows  grew  wider  and  shallower  as  we  raced  along, 
and  presently  disappeared  altogether.  The  lion  was 
running  straight  from  the  canon,  and  the  certainty 

289 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


that  he  must  sooner  or  later  take  to  a  tree,  brought 
from  me  a  yell'  of  irresistible  wild  joy. 

"  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  "  answered  Jones. 

The  whipping  wind  with  its  pine-scented  fra 
grance,  warm  as  the  breath  of  summer,  was  intoxicat 
ing  as  wine.  The  huge  pines,  too  kingly  for  close 
communion  with  their  kind,  made  wide  arches  under 
which  the  horses  stretched  out  long  and  low,  with 
supple,  springy,  powerful  strides.  Frank's  yell  rang 
clear  as  a  bell.  We  saw  him  curve  to  the  right,  and 
took  his  yell  as  a  signal  for  us  to  cut  across.  Then 
we  began  to  close  in  on  him,  and  to  hear  more  dis 
tinctly  the  baying  of  the  hounds. 

"  Hi !  Hi  \  Hi !  Hi !  "  bawled  Jones,  and  his  great 
trumpet  voice  rolled  down  the  forest  glades. 

"  Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  Hi !  "  I  screeched,  in  wild  recog 
nition  of  the  spirit  of  the  moment. 

Fast  as  they  were  flying,  the  bay  and  the  black 
responded  to  our  cries,  and  quickened,  strained  and 
lengthened  under  us  till  the  trees  sped  by  in  blurs. 

There,  plainly  in  sight  ahead  ran  the  hounds,  Don 
leading,  Sounder  next,  and  Moze  not  fifty  yards 
behind  a  desperately  running  lion. 

There  are  all-satisfying  moments  of  life.  That 
chase  through  the  open  forest,  under  the  stately 
pines,  with  the  wild,  tawny  quarry  in  plain  sight;  and 
the  glad  staccato  yelps  of  the  hounds  filling  my  ears 

290 


Kitty 

and  swelling  my  heart,  with  the  splendid  action  of 
my  horse  carrying  me  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  was 
glorious  answer  and  fullness  to  the  call  and  hunger 
of  a  hunter's  blood. 

But  as  such  moments  must  be,  they  were  brief. 
The  lion  leaped  gracefully  into  the  air,  splintering 
the  bark  from  a  pine  fifteen  feet  up,  and  crouched  on 
a  limb.  The  hounds  tore  madly  round  the  tree. 

"  Full-grown  female,"  said  Jones  calmly,  as  we 
dismounted,  "  and  she's  ours.  We'll  call  her  Kitty." 

Kitty  was  a  beautiful  creature,  long,  slender, 
glossy,  with  white  belly  and  black-tipped  ears  and 
tail.  She  did  not  resemble  the  heavy,  grimfaced 
brute  that  always  hung  in  the  air  of  my  dreams. 
A  low,  brooding  menacing  murmur,  that  was  not  a 
snarl  nor  a  growl,  came  from  her.  She  watched  the 
dogs  with  bright,  steady  eyes,  and  never  so  much  as 
looked  at  us. 

The  dogs  were  worth  attention,  even  from  us,  who 
certainly  did  not  need  to  regard  them  from  her  per 
sonally  hostile  point  of  view.  Don  stood  straight  up, 
with  his  forepaws  beating  the  air;  he  walked  on  his 
hind  legs  like  the  trained  dog  in  the  circus;  he  yelped 
continuously,  as  if  it  agonized  him  to  see  the  lion 
safe  out  of  his  reach.  Sounder  had  lost  his  identity. 
Joy  had  unhinged  his  mind  and  had  made  him  a  dog 
of  double  personality.  He  had  always  been  unsoci- 

291 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


able  with  me,  never  responding  to  my  attempts  to 
caress  him,  but  now  he  leaped  into  my  arms  and 
licked  my  face.  He  had  always  hated  Jones  till 
that  moment,  when  he  raised  his  paws  to  his  master's 
breast.  And  perhaps  more  remarkable,  time  and 
time  again  he  sprang  up  at  Satan's  nose,  whether  to 
bite  him  or  kiss  him,  I  could  not  tell.  Then  old 
Moze,  he  of  Grand  Canon  fame,  made  the  delirious 
antics  of  his  canine  fellows  look  cheap.  There  was  a 
small,  dead  pine  that  had  fallen  against  a  drooping 
branch  of  the  tree  Kitty  had  taken  refuge  in,  and  up 
this  narrow  ladder  Moze  began  to  climb.  He  was 
fifteen  feet  up,  and  Kitty  had  begun  to  shift  uneasily, 
when  Jones  saw  him. 

"  Hyar !  you  wild  coon-chaser !  Git  out  of  that ! 
Come  down !  Come  down !  " 

But  Jones  might  have  been  in  the  bottom  of  the 
canon  for  all  Moze  heard  or  cared.  Jones  removed 
his  coat,  carefully  coiled  his  lasso,  and  began  to  go 
hand  and  knee  up  the  leaning  pine. 

"  Hyar!  dod-blast  you,  git  down!  "  yelled  Jones, 
and  he  kicked  Moze  off.  The  persistent  hound 
returned,  and  followed  Jones  to  a  height  of  twenty 
feet,  where  again  he  was  thrust  off. 

"  Hold  him,  one  of  you !  "  called  Jones. 

"  Not  me,"  said  Frank,  "  I'm  lookin'  out  for 
myself." 

292 


"The  cougar  spat  hissingiy  at  Jones" 


Kitty 

"  Same  here,"  I  cried,  with  a  camera  in  one  hand 
and  a  rifle  in  the  other.  "  Let  Moze  climb  if  he 
likes." 

Climb  he  did,  to  be  kicked  off  again.  But  he 
went  back.  It  was  a  way  he  had.  Jones  at  last 
recognized  either  his  own  waste  of  time  or  Moze's 
greatness,  for  he  desisted,  allowing  the  hound  to 
keep  close  after  him. 

The  cougar,  becoming  uneasy,  stood  up,  reached 
for  another  limb,  climbed  out  upon  it,  and  peering 
down,  spat  hissingly  at  Jones.  But  he  kept  steadily 
on  with  Moze  close  on  'his  heels.  I  snapped  my 
camera  on  them  when  Kitty  was  not  more  than  fifteen 
feet  above  them.  As  Jones  reached  the  snag  which 
upheld  the  leaning  tree,  she  ran  out  on  her  branch, 
and  leaped  into  an  adjoining  pine.  It  was  a  good 
long  jump,  and  the  weight  of  the  animal  bent  the 
limb  alarmingly. 

Jones  backed  down,  and  laboriously  began  to  climb 
the  other  tree.  As  there  were  no  branches  low 
down,  he  had  to  hug  the  trunk  with  arms  and  legs, 
as  a  boy  climbs.  His  lasso  hampered  his  progress. 
When  the  slow  ascent  was  accomplished  up  to  the 
first  branch,  Kitty  leaped  back  into  her  first  perch. 
Strange  to  say  Jones  did  not  grumble;  none  of  his 
characteristic  impatience  manifested  itself  here.  I 
supposed  with  him  all  the  exasperating  waits  and  vex- 

293 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


atious  obstacles  were  little  things  preliminary  to  the 
real  work,  to  which  he  had  now  come.  He  was 
calm  and  deliberate,  and  slid  down  the  pine,  walked 
back  to  the  leaning  tree,  and  while  resting  a  moment, 
shook  his  lasso  at  Kitty.  This  action  fitted  him, 
somehow;  it  was  so  compatible  with  his  grim  assur 
ance. 

To  me,  and  to  Frank,  also,  for  that  matter,  it  was 
all  new  and  startling,  and  we  were  as  excited  as 
the  dogs.  We  kept  continually  moving  about,  Frank 
mounted,  and  I  afoot,  to  get  good  views  of  the 
cougar.  When  she  crouched  as  if  to  leap,  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  remain  under  the  tree,  and  we 
kept  moving. 

Once  more  Jones  crept  up  on  hands  and  knees. 
Moze  walked  the  slanting  pine  like  a  rope  performer. 
Kitty  began  to  grow  restless.  This  time  she  showed 
both  anger  and  impatience,  but  did  not  yet  appear 
frightened.  She  growled  low  and  deep,  opened  her 
mouth  and  hissed,  and  swung  her  tufted  tail  faster 
and  faster. 

"  Look  out,  Jones !  look  out !  "  yelled  Frank  warn- 
ingly. 

Jones,  who  had  reached  the  trunk  of  the  tree, 
halted  and  slipped  round  it,  placing  it  between  him 
and  Kitty.  She  had  advanced  on  her  limb,  a  few 
feet  above  Jones,  and  threateningly  hung  over. 

294 


A  few  feet  above  us,  in  the  large  branches,  crouched  our  first  lion. 


Sought  safety  in  another  pine. 


Kitty 

Jones  backed  down  a  little  till  she  crossed  to  another 
branch,  then  he  resumed  his  former  position. 

"  Watch  below,"  called  he. 

Hardly  any  doubt  was  there  as  to  how  we  watched. 
Frank  and  I  were  all  eyes,  except  very  high  and 
throbbing  hearts.  When  Jones  thrashed  the  lasso 
at  Kitty  we  both  yelled.  She  ran  out  on  the  branch 
and  jumped.  This  time  she  fell  short  of  her  point, 
clutched  a  dead  snag,  which  broke,  letting  her 
through  a  bushy  branch  from  where  she  hung  head 
downward.  For  a  second  she  swung  free,  then 
reaching  toward  the  tree  caught  it  with  front  paws, 
ran  down  like  a  squirrel,  and  leaped  off  when  thirty 
feet  from  the  ground.  The  action  was  as  rapid  as 
it  was  astonishing. 

Like  a  yellow  rubber  ball  she  bounded  up,  and 
fled  with  the  yelping  hounds  at  her  heels.  The  chase 
was  short.  At  the  end  of  a  hundred  yards  Moze 
caught  up  with  her  and  nipped  her.  She  whirled 
with  savage  suddenness,  and  lunged  at  Moze,  but  he 
cunningly  eluded  the  vicious  paws.  Then  she  sought 
safety  in  another  pine. 

Frank,  who  was  as  quick  as  the  hounds,  almost 
rode  them  down  in  his  eagerness.  While  Jones 
descended  from  his  perch,  I  led  the  two  horses  down 
the  forest. 

This  time  the  cougar  was  well  out  on  a  low  spread- 

295 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


ing  branch.  Jones  conceived  the  idea  of  raising  the 
loop  of  his  lasso  on  a  long  pole,  but  as  no  pole  of 
sufficient  length  could  be  found,  he  tried  from  the 
back  of  his  horse.  The  bay  walked  forward  well 
enough;  when,  however,  he  got  under  the  beast  and 
heard  her  growl,  he  reared  and  almost  threw  Jones. 
Frank's  horse  could  not  be  persuaded  to  go  near  the 
tree.  Satan  evinced  no  fear  of  the  cougar,  and  with 
out  flinching  carried  Jones  directly  beneath  the  limb, 
and  stood  with  ears  back  and  forelegs  stiff. 

"  Look  at  that!  look  at  that!  "  cried  Jones,  as  the 
wary  cougar  pawed  the  loop  aside.  Three  successive 
times  did  Jones  have  the  lasso  just  ready  to  drop  over 
her  neck,  when  she  flashed  a  yellow  paw  and  knocked 
the  noose  awry.  Then  she  leaped  far  out  over  the 
waiting  dogs,  struck  the  ground  with  a  light,  sharp 
thud,  and  began  to  run  with  the  speed  of  a  deer. 
Frank's  cowboy  training  now  stood  us  in  good  stead. 
He  was  off  like  a  shot  and  turned  the  cougar  from 
the  direction  of  the  canon.  Jones  lost  not  a  moment 
in  pursuit,  and  I,  left  with  Jones's  badly  frightened 
bay,  got  going  in  time  to  see  the  race,  but  not  to 
assist.  For  several  hundred  yards  Kitty  made  the 
hounds  appear  slow.  Don,  being  swiftest,  gained 
on  her  steadily  toward  the  close  of  the  dash,  and 
presently  was  running  under  her  upraised  tail.  On 
the  next  jump  he  nipped  her.  She  turned  and  sent 

296 


The  cougar  out  on  a  low  spreading  branch. 


Kitty 

him  reeling.  Sounder  came  flying  up  to  bite  her 
flank,  and  at  the  same  moment  fierce  old  Moze 
closed  in  on  her.  The  next  instant  a  struggling  mass 
whirled  on  the  ground.  Jones  and  Frank,  yelling 
like  demons,  almost  rode  over  it.  The  cougar  broke 
from  her  assailants,  and  dashing  away  leaped  on  the 
first  tree.  It  was  a  half-dead  pine  with  short  snags 
low  down  and  a  big  branch  extending  out  over  a 
ravine. 

"  I  think  we  can  hold  her  now,"  said  Jones.  The 
tree  proved  to  be  a  most  difficult  one  to  climb.  Jones 
made  several  ineffectual  attempts  before  he  reached 
the  first  limb,  which  broke,  giving  him  a  hard  fall. 
This  calmed  me  enough  to  make  me  take  notice  of 
Jones's  condition.  He  was  wet  with  sweat  and  cov 
ered  with  the  black  pitch  from  the  pines;  his  shirt 
was  slit  down  the  arm,  and  there  was  blood  on  his 
temple  and  his  hand.  The  next  attempt  began  by 
placing  a  good-sized  log  against  the  tree,  and  proved 
to  be  the  necessary  help.  Jones  got  hold  of  the 
second  limb  and  pulled  himself  up. 

As  he  kept  on,  Kitty  crouched  low  as  if  to  spring 
upon  him.  Again  Frank  and  I  sent  warning  calls 
to  him,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  us  or  to  the 
cougar,  and  continued  to  climb.  This  worried  Kitty 
as  much  as  it  did  us.  She  began  to  move  on  the 
snags,  stepping  from  one  to  the  other,  every  moment 

297 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


snarling  at  Jones,  and  then  she  crawled  up.  The 
big  branch  evidently  took  her  eye.  She  tried  several 
times  to  climb  up  to  it,  but  small  snags  close  together 
made  her  distrustful.  She  walked  uneasily  out  upon 
two  limbs,  and  as  they  bent  with  her  weight  she 
hurried  back.  Twice  she  did  this,  each  time  looking 
up,  showing  her  desire  to  leap  to  the  big  branch. 
Her  distress  became  plainly  evident;  a  child  could 
have  seen  that  she  feared  she  would  fall.  At  length, 
in  desperation,  she  spat  at  Jones,  then  ran  out  and 
leaped.  She  all  but  missed  the  branch,  but  succeeded 
in  holding  to  it  and  swinging  to  safety.  Then  she 
turned  to  her  tormentor,  and  gave  utterance  to  most 
savage  sounds.  As  she  did  not  intimidate  her  pur 
suer,  she  retreated  out  on  the  branch,  which  sloped 
down  at  a  deep  angle,  and  crouched  on  a  network  of 
small  limbs. 

When  Jones  had  worked  up  a  little  farther,  he 
commanded  a  splendid  position  for  his  operations. 
Kitty  was  somewhat  below  him  in  a  desirable  place, 
yet  the  branch  she  was  on  joined  the  tree  considerably 
above  his  head.  Jones  cast  his  lasso.  It  caught  on 
a  snag.  Throw  after  throw  he  made  with  like  result. 
He  recoiled  and  recast  nineteen  times,  to  my  count, 
when  Frank  made  a  suggestion. 

"  Rope  those  dead  snags  an'  break  them  off." 
This  practical  idea  Jones  soon  carried  out,  which 

298 


Kitty 

left  him  a  clear  path.  The  next  fling  of  the  lariat 
caused  the  cougar  angrily  to  shake  her  head.  Again 
Jones  sent  the  noose  flying.  She  pulled  it  off  her 
back  and  bit  it  savagely. 

Though  very  much  excited,  I  tried  hard  to  keep 
sharp,  keen  faculties  alert  so  as  not  to  miss  a  single 
detail  of  the  thrilling  scene.  But  I  must  have  failed, 
for  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  how  Jones  was  standing  in 
the  tree,  something  I  had  not  before  appreciated. 
He  had  one  hand  hold,  which  he  could  not  use  while 
recoiling  the  lasso,  and  his  feet  rested  upon  a  pre 
cariously  frail-appearing,  dead  snag.  He  made 
eleven  casts  of  the  lasso,  all  of  which  bothered  Kitty, 
but  did  not  catch  her.  The  twelfth  caught  her  front 
paw.  Jones  jerked  so  quickly  and  hard  that  he 
almost  lost  his  balance,  and  he  pulled  the  noose  off. 
Patiently  he  recoiled  the  lasso. 

"  That's  what  I  want.  If  I  can  get  her  front 
paw  she's  ours.  My  idea  is  to  pull  her  off  the  limb, 
let  her  hang  there,  and  then  lasso  her  hind  legs." 

Another  cast,  the  unlucky  thirteenth,  settled  the 
loop  perfectly  round  her  neck.  She  chewed  on  the 
rope  with  her  front  teeth  and  appeared  to  have  diffi 
culty  in  holding  it. 

"  Easy !  Easy !  Ooze  thet  rope !  Easy !  "  yelled 
the  cowboy. 

Cautiously  Jones  took  up   the  slack  and  slowly 

299 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


tightened  the  nose,  then  with  a  quick  jerk,  fastened 
it  close  round  her  neck. 

We  heralded  this  achievement  with  yells  of  tri 
umph  that  made  the  forest  ring. 

Our  triumph  was  short-lived.  Jones  had  hardly 
moved  when  the  cougar  shot  straight  out  into  the 
air.  The  lasso  caught  on  a  branch,  hauling  her  up 
short,  and  there  she  hung  in  mid  air,  writhing, 
struggling  and  giving  utterance  to  sounds  terribly 
human.  For  several  seconds  she  swung,  slowly 
descending,  in  which  frenzied  time  I,  with  ruling 
passion  uppermost,  endeavored  to  snap  a  picture  of 
her. 

The  unintelligible  commands  Jones  was  yelling  to 
Frank  and  me  ceased  suddenly  with  a  sharp  crack 
of  breaking  wood.  Then  crash !  Jones  fell  out  of 
the  tree.  The  lasso  streaked  up,  ran  over  the  limb, 
while  the  cougar  dropped  pell-mell  into  the  bunch  of 
waiting,  howling  dogs. 

The  next  few  moments  it  was  impossible  for  me 
to  distinguish  what  actually  transpired.  A  great 
flutter  of  leaves  whirled  round  a  swiftly  changing 
ball  of  brown  and  black  and  yellow,  from  which 
came  a  fiendish  clamor. 

Then  I  saw  Jones  plunge  down  the  ravine  and 
bounce  here  and  there  in  mad  efforts  to  catch  the 
whipping  lasso.  He  was  roaring  in  a  way  that  made 

300 


The  cougar  hung  suspended  in  mid-air. 


Kitty 

all  his  former  yells  merely  whispers.  Starting  to 
run,  I  tripped  on  a  root,  fell  prone  on  my  face  into 
the  ravine,  and  rolled  over  and  over  until  I  brought 
up  with  a  bump  against  a  rock. 

What  a  tableau  riveted  my  gaze!  It  staggered 
me  so  I  did  not  think  of  my  camera.  I  stood  trans 
fixed  not  fifteen  feet  from  the  cougar.  She  sat  on 
her  haunches  with  body  well  drawn  back  by  the 
taut  lasso  to  which  Jones  held  tightly.  Don  was 
standing  up  with  her,  upheld  by  the  hooked  claws  in 
his  head.  The  cougar  had  her  paws  outstretched; 
her  mouth  open  wide,  showing  long,  cruel,  white 
fangs;  she  was  trying  to  pull  the  head  of  the  dog  to 
her.  Don  held  back  with  all  his  power,  and  so  did 
Jones.  Moze  and  Sounder  were  tussling  round  her 
body.  Suddenly  both  ears  of  the  dog  pulled  out, 
slit  into  ribbons.  Don  had  never  uttered  a  sound, 
and  once  free,  he  made  at  her  again  with  open  jaws. 
One  blow  sent  him  reeling  and  stunned.  Then  began 
again  that  wrestling  whirl. 

"  Beat  off  the  dogs!  Beat  off  the  dogs!  "  roared 
Jones.  "She'll  kill  them!  She'll  kill  them !" 

Frank  and  I  seized  clubs  and  ran  in  upon  the  con 
fused  furry  mass,  forgetful  of  peril  to  ourselves.  In 
the  wild  contagion  of  such  a  savage  moment  the 
minds  of  men  revert  wholly  to  primitive  instincts. 
We  swung  our  clubs  and  yelled;  we  fought  all  over 

301 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  crashing  through  the 
bushes,  over  logs  and  stones.  I  actually  felt  the  soft 
fur  of  the  cougar  at  one  fleeting  instant.  The  dogs 
had  the  strength  born  of  insane  fighting  spirit.  At 
last  we  pulled  them  to  where  Don  lay,  half-stunned, 
and  with  an  arm  tight  round  each,  I  held  them  while 
Frank  turned  to  help  Jones. 

The  disheveled  Jones,  bloody,  grim  as  death,  his 
heavy  jaw  locked,  stood  holding  to  the  lasso.  The 
cougar,  her  sides  shaking  with  short,  quick  pants, 
crouched  low  on  the  ground  with  eyes  of  purple  fire. 

"  For  God's  sake,  get  a  half-hitch  on  the  saplin' !  " 
called  the  cowboy. 

His  quick  grasp  of  the  situation  averted  a  tragedy. 
Jones  was  nearly  exhausted,  even  as  he  was  beyond 
thinking  for  himself  or  giving  up.  The  cougar 
sprang,  a  yellow,  frightful  flash.  Even  as  she  was 
in  the  air,  Jones  took  a  quick  step  to  one  side  and 
dodged  as  he  threw  his  lasso  round  the  sapling. 
She  missed  him,  but  one  alarmingly  outstretched  paw 
grazed  his  shoulder.  A  twist  of  Jones's  big  hand 
fastened  the  lasso — and  Kitty  was  a  prisoner.  While 
she  fought,  rolled,  twisted,  bounded,  whirled, 
writhed  with  hissing,  snarling  fury,  Jones  sat  mop 
ping  the  sweat  and  blood  from  his  face. 

Kitty's  efforts  were  futile;  she  began  to  weaken 
from  the  choking.  Jones  took  another  rope,  and 

302 


Kitty 

tightening  a  noose  around  her  back  paws,  which  he 
lassoed  as  she  rolled  over,  he  stretched  her  out.  She 
began  to  contract  her  supple  body,  gave  a  savage, 
convulsive  spring,  which  pulled  Jones  flat  on  the 
ground,  then  the  terrible  wrestling  started  again. 
The  lasso  slipped  over  her  back  paws.  She  leaped 
the  whole  length  of  the  other  lasso.  Jones  caught 
it  and  fastened  it  more  securely;  but  this  precaution 
proved  unnecessary,  for  she  suddenly  sank  down 
either  exhausted  or  choked,  and  gasped  with  her 
tongue  hanging  out.  Frank  slipped  the  second  noose 
over  her  back  paws,  and  Jones  did  likewise  with  a 
third  lasso  over  her  right  front  paw.  These  lassoes 
Jones  tied  to  different  saplings. 

"  Now  you  are  a  good  Kitty,"  said  Jones,  kneeling 
by  her.  He  took  a  pair  of  clippers  from  his  hip 
pocket,  and  grasping  a  paw  in  his  powerful  fist  he 
calmly  clipped  the  points  of  the  dangerous  claws. 
This  done,  he  called  to  me  to  get  the  collar  and 
chain  that  were  tied  to  his  saddle.  I  procured  them 
and  hurried  back.  Then  the  old  buffalo  hunter  loos 
ened  the  lasso  which  was  round  her  neck,  and  as  soon 
as  she  could  move  her  head,  he  teased  her  to  bite  a 
club.  She  broke  two  good  sticks  with  her  sharp 
teeth,  but  the  third,  being  solid,  did  not  break. 
While  she  was  chewing  it  Jones  forced  her  head 
back  and  placed  his  heavy  knee  on  the  club.  In  a 

303 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


twinkling  he  had  strapped  the  collar  round  her  neck. 
The  chain  he  made  fast  to  the  sapling.  After  remov 
ing  the  club  from  her  mouth  he  placed  his  knee  on 
her  neck,  and  while  her  head  was  in  this  helpless 
position  he  dexterously  slipped  a  loop  of  thick  copper 
wire  over  her  nose,  pushed  it  back  and  twisted  it 
tight.  Following  this,  all  done  with  speed  and  pre 
cision,  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of  steel  rod, 
perhaps  one-quarter  of  an  inch  thick,  and  five  inches 
long.  He  pushed  this  between  Kitty's  jaws,  just 
back  of  her  great  white  fangs,  and  in  front  of  the 
copper  wire.  She  had  been  shorn  of  her  sharp 
weapons;  she  was  muzzled,  bound,  helpless,  an  object 
to  pity. 

Lastly  Jones  removed  the  three  lassoes.  Kitty 
slowly  gathered  her  lissom  body  in  a  ball  and  lay 
panting,  with  the  same  brave  wildfire  in  her  eyes. 
Jones  stroked  her  black-tipped  ears  and  ran  his  hand 
down  her  glossy  fur.  All  the  time  he  had  kept  up  a 
low  monotone,  talking  to  her  in  the  strange  language 
he  used  toward  animals.  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  We'll  go  back  to  camp  now,  and  get  a  pack- 
saddle  and  horse,"  he  said.  "  She'll  be  safe  here. 
We'll  rope  her  again,  tie  her  up,  throw  her  over  a 
pack-saddle,  and  take  her  to  camp." 

To  my  utter  bewilderment  the  hounds  suddenly 
commenced  fighting  among  themselves.  Of  all  the 

304 


Our  first  captive. 


Kitty 

vicious  bloody  dog-fights  I  ever  saw  that  was  the 
worst.  I  began  to  belabor  them  with  a  club,  and 
Frank  sprang  to  my  assistance.  Beating  had  no 
apparent  effect.  We  broke  a  dozen  sticks,  and  then 
Frank  grappled  with  Moze  and  I  with  Sounder. 
Don  kept  on  fighting  either  one  till  Jones  secured 
him.  Then  we  all  took  a  rest,  panting  and  weary. 

"What's  it  mean?"  I  ejaculated,  appealing  to 
Jones. 

"  Jealous,  that's  all.    Jealous  over  the  lion." 

We  all  remained  seated,  men  and  hounds,  a  sweaty, 
dirty,  bloody,  ragged  group.  I  discovered  I  was 
sorry  for  Kitty.  I  forgot  all  the  carcasses  of  deer 
and  horses,  the  brutality  of  this  species  of  cat;  and 
even  forgot  the  grim,  snarling  yellow  devil  that  had 
leaped  at  me.  Kitty  was  beautiful  and  helpless. 
How  brave  she  was,  too !  No  sign  of  fear  shone  in 
her  wonderful  eyes,  only  hate,  defiance,  watchfulness. 

On  the  ride  back  to  camp  Jones  expressed  himself 
thus:  "  How  happy  I  am  that  I  can  keep  this  lion 
and  the  others  we  are  going  to  capture,  for  my  own ! 
When  I  was  in  the  Yellowstone  Park  I  did  not  get  to 
keep  one  of  the  many  I  captured.  The  military  offi 
cials  took  them  from  me." 

When  we  reached  camp  Lawson  was  absent,  but 
fortunately  Old  Baldy  browsed  near  at  hand,  and 
was  easily  caught.  Frank  said  he  would  rather  take 

305 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


Old  Baldy  for  the  cougar  than  any  other  horse  we 
had.  Leaving  me  in  camp,  he  and  Jones  rode  off  to 
fetch  Kitty. 

About  five  o'clock  they  came  trotting  up  through 
the  forest  with  Jim,  who  had  fallen  in  with  them 
on  the  way.  Old  Baldy  had  remained  true  to  his 
fame — nothing,  not  even  a  cougar  bothered  him. 
Kitty,  evidently  no  worse  for  her  experience,  was 
chained  to  a  pine  tree  about  fifty  feet  from  the  camp- 
fire. 

Wallace  came  riding  wearily  in,  and  when  he  saw 
the  captive,  he  greeted  us  with  an  exultant  yell.  He 
got  there  just  in  time  to  see  the  first  special  features 
of  Kitty's  captivity.  The  hounds  surrounded  her, 
and  could  not  be  called  off.  We  had  to  beat  them. 
Whereupon  the  six  jealous  canines  fell  to  fighting 
among  themselves,  and  fought  so  savagely  as  to  be 
deaf  to  our  cries  and  insensible  to  blows.  They  had 
to  be  torn  apart  and  chained. 

About  six  o'clock  Lawson  loped  in  with  the  horses. 
Of  course  he  did  not  know  we  had  a  cougar,  and  no 
one  seemed  interested  enough  to  inform  him.  Per 
haps  only  Frank  and  I  thought  of  it;  but  I  saw  a 
merry  snap  in  Frank's  eyes,  and  kept  silent.  Kitty 
had  hidden  behind  the  pine  tree.  Lawson,  astride 
Jim's  pack  horse,  a  crochety  animal,  reined  in  just 
abreast  of  the  tree,  and  leisurely  threw  his  leg  over 

306 


Kitty 

the  saddle.  Kitty  leaped  out  to  the  extent  of  her 
chain,  and  fairly  exploded  in  a  frightful  cat-spit. 

Lawson  had  stated  some  time  before  that  he  was 
afraid  of  cougars,  which  was  a  weakness  he  need 
not  have  divulged  in  view  of  what  happened.  The 
horse  plunged,  throwing  him  ten  feet,  and  snorting 
in  terror,  stampeded  with  the  rest  of  the  bunch  and 
disappeared  among  the  pines. 

"  Why  the  hell  didn't  you  tell  a  feller?  "  reproach- 
fully  growled  the  Arizonian.  Frank  and  Jim  held 
each  other  upright,  and  the  rest  of  us  gave  way  to 
as  hearty  if  not  as  violent  mirth. 

We  had  a  gay  supper,  during  which  Kitty  sat  by 
her  pine  and  watched  our  every  movement. 

"  We'll  rest  up  for  a  day  or  two,"  said  Jones. 
'  Things  have  commenced  to  come  our  way.  If  I'm 
not  mistaken  we'll  bring  an  old  Tom  alive  into  camp. 
But  it  would  never  do  for  us  to  get  a  big  Tom  in  the 
fix  we  had  Kitty  to-day.  You  see,  I  wanted  to  lasso 
her  front  paw,  pull  her  off  the  limb,  tie  my  end  of 
the  lasso  to  the  tree,  and  while  she  hung  I'd  go  down 
and  rope  her  hind  paws.  It  all  went  wrong  to-day, 
and  was  as  tough  a  job  as  I  ever  handled." 

Not  until  late  next  morning  did  Lawson  corral  all 
the  horses.  That  day  we  lounged  in  camp  mending 
broken  bridles,  saddles,  stirrups,  lassoes,  boots,  trou 
sers,  leggins,  shirts  and  even  broken  skins. 

307 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


During  this  time  I  found  Kitty  a  most  interesting 
study.  She  reminded  me  of  an  enormous  yellow 
kitten.  She  did  not  appear  wild  or  untamed  until 
approached.  Then  she  slowly  sank  down,  laid  back 
her  ears,  opened  her  mouth  and  hissed  and  spat,  at 
the  same  time  throwing  both  paws  out  viciously. 
Kitty  may  have  rested,  but  did  not  sleep.  At  times 
she  fought  her  chain,  tugging  and  straining  at  it,  and 
trying  to  bite  it  through.  Everything  in  reach  she 
clawed,  particularly  the  bark  of  the  tree.  Once  she 
tried  to  hang  herself  by  leaping  over  a  low  limb. 
When  any  one  walked  by  her  she  crouched  low,  evi 
dently  imagining  herself  unseen.  If  one  of  us  walked 
toward  her,  or  looked  at  her,  she  did  not  crouch.  At 
other  times,  noticeably  when  no  one  was  near,  she 
would  roll  on  her  back  and  extend  all  four  paws  in 
the  air.  Her  actions  were  beautiful,  soft,  noiseless, 
quick  and  subtle. 

The  day  passed,  as  all  days  pass  in  camp,  swiftly 
and  pleasantly,  and  twilight  stole  down  upon  us 
round  the  ruddy  fire.  The  wind  roared  in  the  pines 
and  lulled  to  repose;  the  lonesome,  friendly  coyote 
barked;  the  bells  on  the  hobbled  horses  jingled 
sweetly;  the  great  watch  stars  blinked  out  of  the  blue. 

The  red  glow  of  the  burning  logs  lighted  up 
Jones's  calm,  cold  face.  Tranquil,  unalterable  and 
peaceful  it  seemed;  yet  beneath  the  peace  I  thought 

308 


Kitty 

I  saw  a  suggestion  of  wild  restraint,  of  mystery,  of 
unslaked  life. 

Strangely  enough,  his  next  words  confirmed  my 
last  thought. 

"  For  forty  years  I've  had  an  ambition.  It's  to 
get  possession  of  an  island  in  the  Pacific,  somewhere 
between  Vancouver  and  Alaska,  and  then  go  to 
Siberia  and  capture  a  lot  of  Russian  sables.  I'd  put 
them  on  the  island  and  cross  them  with  our  silver 
foxes.  I'm  going  to  try  it  next  year  if  I  can  find  the 
time." 

The  ruling  passion  and  character  determine  our 
lives.  Jones  was  sixty-three  years  old,  yet  the  thing 
that  had  ruled  and  absorbed  his  mind  was  still  as 
strong  as  the  longing  for  freedom  in  Kitty's  wild 
heart. 

Hours  after  I  had  crawled  into  my  sleeping-bag, 
in  the  silence  of  night  I  heard  her  working  to  get 
free.  In  darkness  she  was  most  active,  restless, 
intense.  I  heard  the  clink  of  her  chain,  the  crack  of 
her  teeth,  the  scrape  of  her  claws.  How  tireless  she 
was.  I  recalled  the  wistful  light  in  her  eyes  that 
saw,  no  doubt,  far  beyond  the  campfire  to  the  yellow 
crags,  to  the  great  downward  slopes,  to  freedom.  I 
slipped  my  elbow  out  of  the  bag  and  raised  myself. 
Dark  shadows  were  hovering  under  the  pines.  I  saw 
Kitty's  eyes  gleam  like  sparks,  and  I  seemed  to  see 

309 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


in  them  the  hate,  the  fear,  the  terror  she  had  of  the 
clanking  thing  that  bound  her. 

I  shivered,  perhaps  from  the  cold  night  wind 
which  moaned  through  the  pines ;  I  saw  the  stars  glit 
tering  pale  and  far  off,  and  under  their  wan  light  the 
still,  set  face  of  Jones,  and  blanketed  forms  of  my 
other  companions. 

The  last  thing  I  remembered  before  dropping  into 
dreamless  slumber  was  hearing  a  bell  tinkle  in  the 
forest,  which  I  recognized  as  the  one  I  had  placed 
on  Satan. 


310 


CHAPTER    XVII 

CONCLUSION 

KITTY  was  not  the  only  cougar  brought  into 
camp  alive.     The  ensuing  days  were  fruit 
ful  of  cougars  and  adventure.     There  were 
more  wild  rides  to  the  music  of  the  baying  hounds, 
and  more  heart-breaking  canon  slopes  to  conquer,  and 
more  swinging,  tufted  tails  and  snarling  savage  faces 
in  the  pinons.     Once  again,  I  am  sorry  to  relate,  I 
had  to  glance  down  the  sights  of  the  little  Remington, 
and  I  saw  blood  on  the  stones.    Those  eventful  days 
sped  by  all  too  soon. 

When  the  time  for  parting  came  it  took  no  little 
discussion  to  decide  on  the  quickest  way  of  getting 
me  to  a  railroad.  I  never  fully  appreciated  the 
inaccessibility  of  the  Siwash  until  the  question  arose 
of  finding  a  way  out.  To  return  on  our  back  trail 
would  require  two  weeks,  and  to  go  out  by  the  trail 
north  to  Utah  meant  half  as  much  time  over  the 
same  kind  of  desert.  Lawson  came  to  our  help, 
however,  with  the  information  that  an  occasional 
prospector  or  horse  hunter  crossed  the  canon  from  the 
Saddle,  where  a  trail  led  down  to  the  river. 

311 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 


"  I've  heard  the  trail  is  a  bad  one,"  said  Lawson, 
"  an'  though  I  never  seen  it,  I  reckon  it  could  be 
found.  After  we  get  to  the  Saddle  we'll  build  two 
fires  on  one  of  the  high  points  an'  keep  them  burnin' 
well  after  dark.  If  Mr.  Bass,  who  lives  on  the  other 
side,  sees  the  fires  he'll  come  down  his  trail  next 
mornin'  an'  meet  us  at  the  river.  He  keeps  a  boat 
there.  This  is  takin'  a  chance,  but  I  reckon  it's 
worth  while." 

So  it  was  decided  that  Lawson  and  Frank  would 
try  to  get  me  out  by  way  of  the  canon;  Wallace 
intended  to  go  by  the  Utah  route,  and  Jones  was  to 
return  at  once  to  his  range  and  his  buffalo. 

That  night  round  the  campfire  we  talked  over  the 
many  incidents  of  the  hunt.  Jones  stated  he  had 
never  in  his  life  come  so  near  getting  his  "  everlast 
ing  "  as  when  the  big  bay  horse  tripped  on  a  canon 
slope  and  rolled  over  him.  Notwithstanding  the 
respect  with  which  we  regarded  his  statement  we  held 
different  opinions.  Then,  with  the  unfailing  opti 
mism  of  hunters,  we  planned  another  hunt  for  the 
next  year. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Jones.  "  Up  in  Utah 
there's  a  wild  region  called  Pink  Cliffs.  A  few  poor 
sheep-herders  try  to  raise  sheep  in  the  valleys.  They 
wouldn't  be  so  poor  if  it  was  not  for  the  grizzly  and 
black  bears  that  live  on  the  sheep.  We'll  go  up 

312 


Conclusion 


there,  find  a  place  where  grass  and  water  can  be  had, 
and  camp.  We'll  notify  the  sheep-herders  we  are 
there  for  business.  They'll  be  only  too  glad  to  hustle 
in  with  news  of  a  bear,  and  we  can  get  the  hounds 
on  the  trail  by  sun-up.  I'll  have  a  dozen  hounds 
then,  maybe  twenty,  and  all  trained.  We'll  put  every 
black  bear  we  chase  up  a  tree,  and  we'll  rope  and  tie 
him.  As  to  grizzlies — well,  I'm  not  saying  so  much. 
They  can't  climb  trees,  and  they  are  not  afraid  of  a 
pack  of  hounds.  If  we  rounded  up  a  grizzly,  got 
him  cornered,  and  threw  a  rope  on  him — there'd  be 
some  fun,  eh,  Jim?  " 

"  Shore  there  would,"  Jim  replied. 

On  the  strength  of  this  I  stored  up  food  for  future 
thought  and  thus  reconciled  myself  to  bidding  fare 
well  to  the  purple  canons  and  shaggy  slopes  of  Buck 
skin  Mountain. 

At  five  o'clock  next  morning  we  were  all  stirring. 
Jones  yelled  at  the  hounds  and  untangled  Kitty's 
chain.  Jim  was  already  busy  with  the  biscuit  dough. 
Frank  shook  the  frost  off  the  saddles.  Wai) ace  was 
packing.  The  merry  jangle  of  bells  came  from  the 
forest,  and  presently  Lawson  appeared  driving  in 
the  horses.  I  caught  my  black  and  saddled  him, 
then  realizing  we  were  soon  to  part  I  could  not  resist 
giving  him  a  hug. 

An  hour  later  we  all  stood  at  the  head  of  the  trail 

313 


The  Last  of  the  Plainsmen 

leading  down  into  the  chasm.  The  east  gleamed 
rosy  red.  Powell's  Plateau  loomed  up  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  under  it  showed  the  dark-fringed  dip  in 
the  rim  called  the  Saddle.  Blue  mist  floated  round 
the  mesas  and  domes. 

Lawson  led  the  way  down  the  trail.    Frank  started 
Old  Baldy  with  the  pack. 

"  Come,"  he  called,  "  be  oozin'  along." 
I  spoke  the  last  good-by  and  turned  Satan  into  the 
narrow  trail.  When  I  looked  back  Jones  stood  on 
the  rim  with  the  fresh  glow  of  dawn  shining  on  his 
face.  The  trail  was  steep,  and  claimed  my  attention 
and  care,  but  time  and  time  again  I  gazed  back. 
Jones  waved  his  hand  till  a  huge  jutting  cliff  walled 
him  from  view.  Then  I  cast  my  eyes  on  the  rough 
descent  and  the  wonderful  void  beneath  me.  In  my 
mind  lingered  a  pleasing  consciousness  of  my  last 
sight  of  the  old  plainsman.  He  fitted  the  scene;  he 
belonged  there  among  the  silent  pines  and  the  yellow 
crags. 

(P 

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